Feathers and Further
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Follow-up to 'Fur and Feathers'. Events compel the Enterprise to return to Kerriel.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Sickbay to Captain Archer."

The call made the captain of the starship _Enterprise _jump slightly, so that Porthos, who had been dozing, raised his head and looked anxious. His pack-alpha was off duty and relaxing in his quarters, and as usual some kind of game involving water and a ball was playing on the vid-screen. The dog was well accustomed to this, and also to the fact that a running commentary on it was usually forthcoming – sometimes becoming quite loud and excited. Often one of the other Humans came to watch the game (the kind one who smelled to a dog's nose of metal and oil, no matter how hard he washed), and it was always noticeable that although their voices sounded as though they were quarrelling there was always a playful note there so there was never any need for worry. The dog had learned quite early on that that after one of these visits the possibility of cheese was strong. He liked that Human to visit. It made his master happy, and apart from any other considerations a happy master was far more forthcoming with treats.

Over the past couple of weeks, however, it had been noticeable that the visits had almost ceased. The games were still on the screen, but the commentary from the watcher had become more and more sporadic and less and less animated. Sometimes the vid was not activated at all, and his master simply sat and stared at the wall or out of the viewing port at the streaking star trails outside. Tonight had been one of those times to begin with; eventually the screen had been activated, but there was no response to the action on it at all, and the dog had crept up on to the bed to lay his head on his pack-alpha's thigh. The familiar long fingers had caressed his soft ears affectionately, but there was a sense of absence in them. The murmured words 'She'd probably have eaten you for a snack' had no meaning for him, and his tail only wagged very gently, to acknowledge that he'd been spoken to.

Disturbed from not really watching the water-polo, the captain muted the match commentary and tapped the comm. panel. "Archer."

"Phlox here, Captain. I apologise for disturbing you off duty, but I'd appreciate your coming down to Sickbay as soon as possible."

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes, Captain. And one we need to discuss as a matter of some urgency."

"I'll be there." He didn't even bother to switch off the screen before he was out of the door.

Porthos, well attuned to the slight signals that told him whether or not a walk was in prospect, knew even before his master had jumped up that this wasn't going to be one of the good times. He padded to the door as it closed and sniffed beneath it, whining very softly. Then, resigning himself, he went back to his bed. He turned around on it a couple of times, but couldn't settle. Eventually he did what he knew he shouldn't – jumped up on to his master's bed and sought out the faint warmth remaining among the covers. The bedding was permeated with the comforting smell of his pack-alpha, and he curled up there, saturating himself in it. Perhaps his master had gone to find the other human, the kind one. Perhaps they would come back soon and they would watch the moving pictures on the wall, and their voices would have the playful sound again and everything would be all right. Perhaps when his pack-alpha returned his smell would be like what it had been before, without that underlying not-rightness that had pervaded it since that day he had come back stinking of dangerous-sharp-claws-teeth. Even the other human had smelled of it that evening, if not so strongly. Something had gone wrong that day.

Something that had never gone right since.

* * *

The captain strode into Sickbay and stopped dead in his tracks.

He had not been prepared to find his science officer perched on the side of one of the bio-beds, looking – for a Vulcan – somewhat shocked. Dr Phlox was standing immediately opposite to her, and for once there was not even the ghost of a smile on the Denobulan's usually cheerful features.

"Phlox? What's wrong?" He stared at T'Pol, who stared mutely back at him. "Will somebody tell me what's going on here?"

The doctor cleared his throat, as though he found speech difficult to come by. "I regret to tell you, Captain, that Sub-Commander T'Pol has a serious medical problem."

"A problem?" He glanced up at the bio-readouts as though they might mean something to him. They didn't. "As in what sort of serious medical problem?"

"The sort of 'serious medical problem' that means she has fewer than three months to live if it is not treated soon."

Sickbay seemed to recede to an infinite distance and come back again several times before his head cleared. "But it is treatable?" he got out eventually. Time had been – and not so long ago – when he'd have turned somersaults at the prospect of seeing the back of her off his ship: the Vulcan 'spy' as he'd thought of her then, the supercilious, condescending bitch who made it offensively obvious what an ordeal it was to endure living alongside Humans for however long her bosses kept her there to keep them informed. But never, even at the very worst, had he wished any actual ill on her; and the intervening time had transformed their relationship into something that he at least regarded as a closer friendship than he'd ever thought possible between two people of their species. What she thought of it he'd never found the opportunity to enquire, though there seemed little doubt that her attitude towards Humans in general had mellowed considerably. Now the prospect of losing her was dismaying on far more than a professional level. He didn't consider any member of his crew even remotely dispensable, but all of his alpha bridge staff held a special place in his heart, and somehow T'Pol had found a way in there too, without his ever having even realized it.

"At present, Captain, the answer to that is 'no'." The reply fell like lead. "But with your co-operation, we may be able to find a solution."

"What do you mean, 'my co-operation'? I'll do whatever it takes! Just tell me!" His thoughts flitted rapidly through medical procedures: a serum transfusion, even a kidney – sure, their physiology wouldn't be compatible, but Phlox evidently knew how to make it work –

"Then, Captain, you would oblige me by turning the ship around and setting a return course at our best possible speed."

A _return course?_ He fairly gaped at the Denobulan, trying to understand why he was talking in riddles instead of saying plain out what he wanted.

Then the penny dropped.

Kerriel.

"The parasite," he heard himself saying softly, in a voice of despair. "But you got it out, didn't you?"

"Indeed, Captain. But the parasite is not the problem." T'Pol herself spoke up, in a voice that he couldn't help but suspect was steadier than his would have been in the circumstances. "The initial substance that was injected into me to paralyze me evidently contained a second and more slow-acting toxin. Its purpose appears to be to begin breaking down my vascular structure to allow the parasite easier access to my organs as it matures."

"Leading to at first minor and eventually catastrophic and fatal internal bleeding," finished Phlox heavily. "Its nature is different to anything we have on our databases, which is why I didn't pick it up on any of my scans. It only came to light because the Sub-commander noticed that she had what appeared to be minor bruising on her body for which there was apparently no reason. It has taken me over twenty-four hours to isolate the toxin, and I have little hope that anything we have on board will reverse or even slow down the effects. I am sorry, Captain."

"I have a request to make of you, Captain." His science officer straightened up and faced him, keeping her expression unmoved at whatever cost. "I do not wish this to become common knowledge. At least not until I have to become confined to sickbay, if and when that becomes necessary. The emotional reactions that would result would disrupt the efficient running of the ship for no perceptible gain."

He sighed. The request was, as usual, flawlessly logical. He wondered if she took any comfort from the knowledge that she'd inadvertently betrayed, that the news of her condition would be a source of concern and dismay to the crew. "You don't want anyone except us to know?"

"I would be more comfortable if the secret went no further. At least for the time being."

"And you'll be OK to keep going as normal – at least for a while?"

"I can at least administer something on a daily basis that will enable her to function normally for some weeks. A month or so, if necessary." The doctor blinked several times and rallied, trying as he always did to sound upbeat. "Hopefully we will be able to reach the planet and manufacture an antivenin long before any damage is done that will be beyond my skills to repair once the toxin itself is eliminated."

"Of course," he responded mechanically. "So you think if you can capture one of the – the things that attacked her – you can find out how to neutralize the toxin?" They still had the parasite itself. He cast a glance of absolute loathing at the glass jar on the nearby desk top, with the dead creature floating in it in a tangle of grey tendrils. It took little effort to guess that the chemicals in which it had been preserved would have rendered it unsuitable for any meaningful chemical analysis. That left the only hope: to secure another specimen and carry out a detailed analysis of that second toxin.

Though it _wasn't_ the only hope, he found himself thinking, even as the doctor nodded assent to this summary of their intentions. Surely a world that was familiar with these damned creatures would have come up with a treatment, if not perhaps even an antivenin? Even with a civilization as backward as that – his officers' reports had confirmed that they had medical knowledge and actually quite sophisticated skill with drugs (though he scowled as he remembered the use to which some of those skills had been put). Surely it would be possible, somehow, to contact somebody willing to help?

The name was already in his mind of someone who would surely be the very best and most willing person they could ask for help if they needed it. She would help, he knew she would. If a cure was available, Shiránnor would deliver it. They only needed to find her. He thrust down the eagerness that had suddenly sprung up unbidden inside him, an excitement that had nothing to do with toxins or cures or anything else: a yearning that if he'd ever experienced drug addiction would have been sickeningly familiar. It was the work of a moment to key in the comm. code to contact the gamma shift helmsman and give him his orders. The ship came about in a smooth turn. Underneath their feet the deck plating quivered ever so slightly as the speed increased to the maximum that could be safely maintained for the distance.

_They were going back to Kerriel._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Commander Charles Tucker III, known to his intimates as 'Trip', was annoyed.

This mood was an extreme rarity with him. He was usually one of the sunniest souls aboard ship. Frustration occasionally caused his temper to fray a little, especially when it was caused by some minor problem with his beloved warp engines that temporarily eluded his ingenuity to solve; but success always brought the sun out from behind the clouds again in very short order. He loved his work, he loved the ship, and he loved being among the adventurous and dedicated people on board, many of whom were his friends, and some of whom were among the closest he had.

Captain Jonathan Archer was one of these last. For years Jon had been something very like an older brother to him, and the chance to serve as one of his senior officers on board the first Warp-5 capable starship had been a dream come true. The sense of trust that had built up between them down the years had meant that he had no problem with taking orders from him; it was inevitable that there would be stresses between them occasionally, as there are between members of any family, but these always got resolved, and sharing a few beers and watching a recorded game of water-polo in the 'Cap'n's' quarters sometimes after their shift ended was part of their routine. It was their way of reaffirming the bond of their friendship, and although they both knew that the rank divide still existed outside that door, it was a comfort to both of them that there were times when 'Jon' was appropriate.

Just lately, however, 'Jon' was becoming more and more elusive. Trip never presumed on their friendship to invite himself to the captain's quarters unbidden. Since their visit to the planet he was rapidly beginning to think of in his own mind as _that goddamn place_ there had been three invitations to the usual friendly hour of beer and water-polo; he had known at once, on both occasions when it had gone ahead, that something was wrong. On the first he had tried to tell himself that he was imagining things, or that it was tiredness, or stress, or that Archer was just not really in the mood for socializing. Everybody has days like that, and captains are no different. But on the second Jon had been even more distant. Oh, he'd tried to act normal, but his heart so evidently wasn't in it that it was worse, in some ways, than if he hadn't made any effort at all. The third had been canceled at the last minute, with the excuse of work to catch up on. This had been less of a disappointment than a relief. Trip didn't really want to spend his precious free hours forcing a conversation with someone who listened with half an ear at best and stared at the screen (when he looked at it at all) with a lack of interest that revealed with absolute clarity that even if he knew there was a game in progress he couldn't give a damn who won.

As irksome and inexplicable as this was, however, he could have dealt with it more easily if he hadn't had a second source of aggravation niggling at him. One, moreover, that he could trace directly to the same starting point, and which he had even less idea of how to solve.

After waiting some days to give T'Pol time to regain her mental balance after the hair-raising events on that goddamn place they'd recently visited, Trip had finally decided to corner her for a discussion about it. In his mind there were issues that needed to be resolved between them. Chiefly, from his point of view, apart from the obvious aim of thanking her for saving his life, he wanted to find out the minute details of what had happened. He had, of course, read her official report, but it was bland to the point of almost total obscurity, and he wanted to know far more details of what had gone on during those periods when his mind was clouded by the drug he'd been given. Also, and far more importantly, he wanted to know how she felt about the whole episode, and whether it had opened even the smallest chink in that formidable armor of hers. It had certainly changed the way _he_ felt about _her;_ could it, perhaps, have worked that subtle magic on her too? He had tried to glean what he could from their everyday interactions since, but could detect nothing definite – nothing except the faintest, most elusive but most persistent impression that she had changed towards him. She was no more distant, she was no friendlier. She was just … _different_.

He thought that approaching her uninvited in her quarters after their duties were over might be a bit too direct for her comfort, so he'd decided to be subtler than that. He'd find some opportunity to broach the matter during the course of their working day. This decision proved harder to make than to put into effect. Although naturally their duties as fellow-officers dictated that they spend a considerable amount of time in each other's company, most of this was also in the company of other people. This, of course, ensured that they could utter no more than the commonplaces of ordinary working conversations. In the usual course of things, however, there would also be the occasional period when they encountered one another in slightly more secluded surroundings – not precisely private, but sufficiently distant from other members of the crew for a low-voiced conversation to be possible without running any danger of being overheard. To his irritation, though, now that he really needed to take advantage of one of these occasions, every one of them suddenly seemed to have disappeared from the map. Every time he thought he was going to get his chance, his intended quarry quietly contrived to find a reason to go somewhere else. At first he thought it was coincidence, but as the number of coincidences mounted his conviction grew that they were no such thing: T'Pol was quite deliberately avoiding him. Still, he was prepared to bide his time. Sooner or later she'd get tired of the game and then he darn well would get that heart to heart talk that by now he so badly needed.

He still wasn't sure how he even felt about what had happened. The memories of the time he'd spent on Kerriel continued to perplex and intrigue him mightily. Hell, some of them were downright _thrilling_. His shower had never felt the same since, for one thing. So he'd been prepared for the reticent Vulcan to do a bit of an oyster-impersonation on the topic, but he was good with oysters. The vaunted aphrodisiac properties of an oyster seemed a favorable omen when the simile dawned on him, and when he'd finally tracked her down working in a corner where they could at last have that private conversation, he'd mustered all his formidable charm and even more formidable resolve, absolutely determined that he was going to get to the bottom of whatever changes the episode might have wrought in their relationship.

Oyster? Clam, more like it – one of those utterly bloody-minded giant ones that sit in an invulnerable rocky niche on the sea bed with its two halves welded firmly together and won't budge a quarter of a centimeter for anything short of a depth-charge.

"I did only what was necessary, Commander Tucker." Oh, he could still hear her voice now, as unruffled as a pool of engine oil and about as interested. "There is no need for gratitude. Starfleet has invested a great deal of time and expense in your career. It was my duty to rescue a valued officer."

His stare, or rather glare, at her would have reduced a basilisk to speechless envy. Hell, he knew a carefully rehearsed speech when he heard one, and she wasn't getting away with that!

"So that's _it?_" he'd demanded. "That covers the whole thing, from your point of view – just 'protectin' Starfleet's investment'?"

One eyebrow rose. It was a killer, that eyebrow. He'd begun to suspect she spent hours in front of a mirror practicing how to use it to most crushing effect. "What else could have been involved?"

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps I was thinkin' there might have been somethin' like 'savin' a friend's ass' in there, in which case, it might have been appropriate for the 'friend' to be grateful. But it sounds like the only people who oughtta be grateful to you are Starfleet, 'cause you've saved them a bundle trainin' my replacement!"

"That is certainly the logical way of putting it," she'd observed, bringing up a new set of data on the wall screen to be much more engrossed in than she was in their conversation.

He'd tried to speak, but stopped with a hard exhalation. He was still sure – totally and utterly and one-hundred-per-cent sure – that this wasn't 'it' as far as she was concerned; for one thing, she wasn't looking at him. He'd survived what had felt like her disdain in the early days, even what came across as dislike on occasions, always assuming that Vulcans weren't the passionless people they were made out to be (and nowadays he personally thought they weren't). At times her stare had felt like the fixed attention of one of Malcolm's phase cannons. But one thing she'd never been afraid to do was to meet his eyes when she said what she had to say. Now she was paying just a mite too much attention to those fascinating pages of technical information. Aha. Miss Frosty was overplaying that hand of hers. She remembered as well as he did how delectable it had felt when their mouths had met there on the watercourse in the darkness. She was fully aware that her curves had melded into his body in a passionate surrender that still haunted his waking and sleeping dreams. There was a sea of fire under that icy outer layer. She wasn't fooling _him._

The problem was, if the encounter had found any place in her dreams she sure wasn't going to let on to him about it. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, getting her to admit it was a whole different ball game. She might not fool him, but it looked like she was fooling herself just fine. And because he didn't have a clue what to do about it, he'd simply stalked away without another word.

And now, the two people on the ship who were both in their individual ways preying on his peace of mind appeared to be in collusion about something that he wasn't being told about. During this morning's briefing he'd been told that the ship was en route back to _that goddamned place_. As if there were something any of them needed less, they were going back to the place that had started the whole problem! At some point during the previous evening the captain had apparently made the unilateral decision to just turn them around and head back to Kerriel at high speed. The increase in warp speed wasn't news to him: as highly attuned as he was to even the slightest changes in the sound and vibration of the ship, he'd known as soon as it happened. In other circumstances he might have contacted the bridge to know why, but as things stood he was just going to wait and see when someone (naming no names) got around to telling him. Now, he finally knew officially – and where they were going, to boot. From Malcolm's expression the news of their destination had come as a surprise to him as well, and not a very welcome one at that; but T'Pol had just stood there looking ... well, looking Vulcan. But one thing she sure wasn't looking was 'surprised'.

"Is there any particular reason for this, sir?" Malcolm had asked cautiously, obviously seeing that Trip wasn't going to.

"Yes." The captain had spoken shortly. "It's classified."

_Not classified from everybody_, thought Tucker bitterly. He still said nothing. This collusion between the two of them had happened on a previous occasion on the voyage, and he realized now that the memory of it still rankled to a surprising degree. He'd put it down at the time to hurt at the exclusion from Jon's confidence, as well as anger at being dumped in control of the ship without a word of explanation and left to wonder where the heck in the known universe he'd start looking for his superior officers if they failed to materialize on time. He still didn't know where the two of them had been or what they had done. He'd done his best ever since to convince himself that he didn't care either, taking care not to ask himself the question of why it had bothered him so much that T'Pol and Jon were away on some kind of covert operation where the constraints of rank could not be allowed to govern their conduct.

"Oh." The tactical officer's raised brows and startled look said a lot more than that single syllable. Malcolm was quite possibly the most observant man on the ship. It certainly wouldn't have been lost on him either that the captain hadn't recovered mentally from the previous visit to Kerriel. Going back there was hardly going to get his vote, but then the ship wasn't run as a democracy.

"You don't foresee any problems maintaining this speed all the way?" Archer asked his chief engineer bluntly.

"Shouldn't think so. Is there any reason why we're in such a rush?"

"Classified."

_Somehow, I just had this feelin' it would be_. He inclined his head in a way that managed to combine acceptance and annoyance, but saw to his increased irritation that the captain wasn't even looking at him. He was looking at T'Pol instead, and there was a barely-concealed gentleness in his expression that for some reason added even further fuel to Trip's ire.

"If that's it, Cap'n, I'll get back down to Engineerin' and make sure nothing blows up on us on the way," he almost snapped. He turned on his heel and strode out of the ready room, half expecting to be called back to apologize; but there was no response. Before he'd got into the turbo lift Reed was out too. The cool grey eyes met his hot blue ones in a shared moment of intense concern, and then dropped. Malcolm slipped silently back to his station at Tactical and Trip got into the turbo lift. Sooner or later they'd be talking – when it was safe to do so, which it certainly wasn't right now.

* * *

Much later that evening, after he'd taken a long hot shower in the vain effort to wash away the formless cloud of apprehension and anger that was tying his stomach in knots, Trip made his way to the mess to catch some supper. Even his usual appetite had deserted him; he looked indifferently at the selection of dishes laid out in the chilled area, and finally settled for a sandwich. He glanced around at the tables as he waited for the beverage dispenser to fill up his mug of coffee. A slight figure in steel-colored leisure clothes was reading quietly in an isolated corner. An untouched cup of black tea sat on the table in front of him. At that precise moment a single glance flicked over the top of the book, which obviously wasn't nearly as absorbing as its owner was trying to make out.

Placing his meal on a tray, Trip sauntered to the table. Having understood that glance perfectly well, he didn't ask before hooking a chair out with his foot and dropping into it.

"Why the hell are we going back to that place?" Malcolm asked in a low voice from behind the book. He must be mightily disturbed himself, Tucker thought drily. He hadn't even prefaced the question with 'sir' or 'Commander'. Admittedly they were off duty, and the solid friendship that was growing between them permitted them a lot of leeway, but the reserved Brit was still inclined to err on the side of caution when beginning a conversation.

"Beats me." He took a mouthful of the sandwich and tossed it back on to the plate. "But what do I know? I'm just the guy who has to keep the engines goin'."

Reed looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, at first I was sorry I missed out on going down there," he remarked at last. "But it's getting to the point where I think I had a lucky escape. The only one who got away scot free was Travis."

_Lucky bastard_, thought Trip sourly. Aloud he said, "You want the honest truth? I wish we'd never set eyes on the goddamn place."

"Hmm. That's understandable." The other man took a sip of tea and grimaced to find it cold. He set down the book, sat back in his chair and surveyed the mess as though their conversation was nothing out of the ordinary. In the circumstances, it might not be wise for the two of them to appear in any way conspiratorial.

At that moment the mess door opened and T'Pol walked in. She took her usual cup of mint tea, selected a salad from the chiller section and walked out again. Trip followed her with his eyes, forgetting for a moment that he was sitting right next to the most observant man on the ship, and one who'd had a perfect view of that last passionate embrace between engineer and science officer as well. _I bet she took the cheese salad and she's goin' to keep Jon company while she eats it. That way she can have him _and _Porthos droolin'._

"Trip, I'm worried about the captain," Reed said after a moment, in an even lower voice. "Ever since he came back, he hasn't been himself."

"Yeah. I know." His voice was moody, matching his thoughts. "Tell me something I hadn't noticed." He took an incautious gulp of his coffee. Unlike the tea, it was almost boiling; to add to his troubles he now had a scalded mouth. He set the mug down again, hissing an imprecation.

The pain had gone some way towards clearing his head, though. "You didn't see him with the… the lion-woman," he said suddenly, almost inconsequentially. "As soon as she touched him, his face just ... lit up. Like it was every birthday and Christmas he'd ever had. He was just ... transformed."

"And that was all she did? Just touched him?"

"Right here. Like this." He placed the tip of one index finger just between and above his brows. "And that was it. That was all it took." He picked his sandwich up again and bit into it, ignoring his smarting tongue, though he hardly tasted it as he frowned darkly through the memories. "She was ... hell, I can't say she was ugly. At that point she was just ... scary. All covered in blood. We didn't have a clue what she wanted. She just expected us to trust her. And he did."

"Pity," murmured Reed.

"It didn't feel that way at the time," admitted Trip. "Don't get me wrong, Malcolm. She really was an amazin' person. I liked her a lot. It's just that ... I don't think Jon can get over her."

The grey eyes lifted and met his squarely. "Do you think that's why we're going back?"

"Hell, I don't know. I'd like to think it isn't. She's not even – she's not even humanoid. Even if it was possible, given he's the captain of a starship and she's an alien on some godforsaken planet in the middle of nowhere, they couldn't have a relationship. At least not a physical one."

"If he got that much out of the mental relationship he might think it an adequate trade-off."

"That's still workin' on the assumption that she'd be willin' to do it again. Or even interested in a relationship, or allowed, or... We just don't know nearly enough about her. Or her people, come to that. We could run into big trouble. I should know how easy it is to do." He grimrced. "They sure aren't all friendly down there."

"At least next time we'd be prepared." The stare had acquired a distinct menace. "Next time… if there is a next time… _I_ go along. And _everyone_ carries a weapon."

"We didn't expect to meet a bunch of bird-headed kidnapping bitches," objected Trip, not for the first time; this had been somewhat of a bone of contention between them. "We were just there for the hyrellanium, remember? And McKenna was there to hold our hands if there was a problem."

"I remember perfectly well what you went down there for. Though I never did work out how you managed to evade an important tactical exercise, _sir_." Reed's eyes had narrowed. This also was a recurring topic. "Unfortunately, as I've mentioned to you before, Mr. McKenna was somewhat overawed by the prospect of giving advice to two officers who considerably outranked him. Understandable, since I'd chosen him more for his ability with explosives than for his shepherding skills, but unfortunate." He took a sip of his cold tea and smiled evilly. "I wouldn't suffer from that problem."

Tucker glared at him. "Yeah. If there's one thing we sure can rely on you for, Malcolm, it's givin' people advice."

"If I'd been there to give you my advice that time, at least you wouldn't have had to rely on T'Pol to charge in and rescue you." Malcolm's eyebrows could be almost as expressive as the science officer's; his gaze took on a slightly malicious quality. "But perhaps you're not altogether sorry I wasn't there ... considering the outcome."

"Envy sure is a terrible thing, isn't it?" He took another mouthful of coffee, which was drinkable by this time, and grinned in spite of himself.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

It was the one thing that up till now had allowed Sub-commander T'Pol to function correctly in the alien environment of the Earth Starship Enterprise, and it had failed her.

The Vulcan straightened up, blew out her meditation candle, and sat in the dimness of her cabin, staring blankly at the wall in despair.

Any Vulcan relied on daily meditation to center and restore their mental processes. It was as important to them as regular sleep, in fact possibly even more important; there had been times during her career when circumstances had demanded that she go without sleep for several days without serious ill effects, but as long as she had contrived to snatch the odd moment of meditation here and there she had managed to maintain her mental faculties at almost peak condition. But tonight she had found herself, for the first time in her life, unable to meditate. She could not understand it. She had followed her invariable routine, perfected in long years of training and followed rigorously ever since. And nothing had happened.

The threat of physical danger would never have interfered with her ability to retreat into her precious 'white space', the peaceful inner refuge which allowed her brain to process all the information of her day and arrange it into an order which would permit her to deal with it in the proper way. To be sure, the shocking discovery of her illness had required a considerable amount of mental adjustment. She had been very thankful indeed for the arduous training of her youth, which had enabled her to confront the reality of the situation without giving way to illogical reactions such as anger or inappropriate emotions such as fear. At times, true, it was an effort to keep these at bay - which was one of the reasons why she had requested that her condition be kept strictly confidential. Bearing her own emotions was enough of a burden without having to deal with those of the crew as well; Humans were so very emotive, and seemed to be utterly unable to resist indulging in whatever reactions to which their limbic systems prompted them.

If she had been on board a Vulcan ship it would have been different. She could have relied on calm support from the rest of the crew. They would have bolstered her determination to remain composed rather than undermining it with well-meant expressions of sympathy and shock. That said, if she had been on board a Vulcan ship it was extremely unlikely that she would have found herself in this predicament. Her people did not suffer from the incurable curiosity that drove Humans to rush into potentially hazardous situations with hardly a moment's pause for reflection. Nevertheless, she had made her decision to stay aboard Enterprise with her eyes open, and in hindsight her injury had been brought about at least partly through her own fault. The landing party should not have split up. Dividing the party had required that she keep so much of an eye on the others that when they were threatened she had neglected her own safety. She had paid the price. A price that she had thought at the time was, while inconvenient and unpleasant, rather minor. Now, it seemed it might prove to be very much more than that. If they could not discover and manufacture an effective antitoxin in time, it might prove to be the highest price of all.

This alone, however, would not have prevented her from achieving the comfort of her 'white space'. She had spent quite a long time refusing to admit to herself why it had become harder and harder to conform to that ideal of remote efficiency which her training had been aimed at achieving. Now she could no longer hide from it. It had to be faced, and dealt with, or her power of meditation could be lost to her forever. No Vulcan could endure that.

She crossed her arms around her body, hugging herself, but even that action sparked memories that brought her hands away from her skin as if burned. She put them on her shoulders instead, and rocked herself backwards and forwards. Inside the chaos that was her mind robbed of the peace of meditation, two voices argued. She could not stop hearing them. Perhaps she would still go on hearing them ricochet off the walls when eventually sheer exhaustion forced her to sleep.

Presently she half fell and half forced herself into some kind of broken approximation of her white space. Even there the voices went on arguing, while now and again they were interrupted by feverish ramblings that she hardly recognized for her own thoughts.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

_This is not appropriate._

"Is that _it?"_

_He is a Human._

"I was a complete gentleman the entire time."

_He is a colleague._

(His broad shoulders, with the water sparkling on them...)

_He is my junior officer._

"It might have been appropriate for a 'friend' to be grateful."

_I am a Vulcan._

"Anywhere you want it, sweetheart."

_In the beginning I noticed his Human body odor. Now I notice his Human scent._

"We need to talk about what happened back there."

_I should have acquiesced to the wishes of Koss's parents. I should still be betrothed._

"Just 'protectin' Starfleet's investment'?"

_Outrage at the High Command._

"I can't just forget about it."

_Scandal for Starfleet._

'Happiness is too brief to be wasted'.

_Shiránnor looked at me as she said it._

"I know some of it must have been really tough on you."

_This is not appropriate._

"You risked your life for me."

_Against regulations._

(Strong hands caressing her back.)

_Sometimes when we sit down to eat in the captain's mess I find myself imagining him lifting me and laying me down across the table in a chaos of shattering tableware and spilling food, and ... I am afraid that Captain Archer might be somewhat disconcerted._

"Anywhere you want it, sweetheart."

_Damage to Earth-Vulcan relations._

(Sweeping down, gently squeezing ...)

_I have to concentrate very hard on my salad at those times._

"I think we need to talk about this."

_I am a Vulcan._

(His broad shoulders. Oh - the touch of his fingers, gentle and warm and sure...)

_'I want to lay you down and send you to Heaven.' He whispered that to me as we hurried away from the encampment. I do not think Koss would say such a thing. He would dispute the existence of such a place and therefore see no point in offering to send me there._

(Stroking ...)

_He is a Starfleet officer._

'Happiness is too brief to be wasted.'

_They taught me about pon farr. When a Vulcan male enters that state, his body manufactures hormones that affect his wife's body too, so that she can endure his physical demands, even welcome them. I wonder too late if Humans too create similar hormones, and if I have breathed his in without even knowing._

"Isn't it ... kinda lonely?"

_This is not appropriate._

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

_His eyes are so very blue. And his mouth ... I watch it when he is speaking. I find myself remembering how it felt, and wanting to feel it again. I lie on my bunk at night and find myself thinking, wondering, burning ..._

"Anywhere you want it, sweetheart."

_I remember my betrothal ceremony. I did not watch Koss's mouth as he spoke the betrothal vows.__ In truth I am not sure I remember what he looked like. It did not seem important at the time._

"We need to talk about what happened back there."

_Was this how ... those other females felt? Is this why they surrendered?_

(Soft lips caressing her neck.)

"Is that_ it?"_

(Nibbling, teasing.)

_He is a Human._

"I want to lay you down and send you to Heaven."

_When I walk down the ship's corridors I know where he has passed. I sniff the air like a seh'lat, following his scent. That clean, spicy, addictive odor of sandalwood and ... skin. _

"Just 'protectin' Starfleet's investment'?"

_When we brought Princess Kaitaama back to the ship I sat as far from her as possible. She smelt of swamp and sex and sandalwood. I thought it was distaste that I felt, but distaste would not have made me fearful for her life if she spoke one word to me afterwards._

'Happiness is too brief to be wasted.'

_Will I go mad before I die?_

She sat in the darkness, rocking herself in utter desolation.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"The scanner readings being picked up by the fifth planet in the system are extremely unusual, Captain." T'Pol's voice cut through the quiet of the bridge as the ship finally approached the system of which Kerriel was the second planet. "We will be passing very close to it on our current heading. It might be worthwhile to take the opportunity to take a closer look at it."

Archer, who had been sitting in his chair trying to conceal the fact that every muscle in his body was rigid with tension, glanced across at her in surprise before realizing that she was simply trying to maintain the charade of normality. Other people besides herself would be checking those scans, and it could cause comment if she failed to report something that she would normally have been the first to pick up.

Phlox had kept him up to date on her 'progress', and so far no miracle had occurred. The toxin was still present and working its stealthy curse, even though the object of it had been removed. The science officer was now having to use a cosmetic cream to disguise the fact that bruises were starting to appear on parts of her body that her uniform didn't cover. Apart from that, whatever medication the doctor was using on her seemed to be enabling her to carry on as normal; if the captain hadn't been privy to the secret already he doubted if he'd ever have guessed it from her demeanor.

"In what way, 'unusual'?" he asked, playing along.

"Unusual in that there are no readings from it," she replied, keying various commands on her console. "There is a planet, and it would appear to have an atmosphere of some kind. But we cannot obtain any information more than that. It is there, and that is all we know."

"Why didn't we notice it last time?" inquired Hoshi in surprise.

"When we approached last time it was in apogee to our course." The ship was approaching from a slightly different angle this time as during the intervening weeks they had travelled in various directions to investigate anything that looked as though it might prove interesting. The return route had naturally taken them in a straight line, and they were thus coming closer to the fifth planet's orbit.

"Well. I guess we can spare the time for a quick peek as we pass." His gaze searched her face for agreement and noted the infinitesimal nod. "Travis, take us into orbit. We'll take a turn around it and see what we can get."

When they were safely in orbit around it, however, the fifth planet did not look welcoming. For one thing, the atmosphere that defied the sensors was no more accommodating to a visual inspection. It appeared to consist chiefly of a dense black fog. The movement of the planet below apparently generated some form of weather system, for here and there the fog was disturbed by very large whorls that must represent titanic storms down on the surface; but apart from that, there was nothing that could be deduced about it at all. At his order, Hoshi sent out the usual hails, announcing their arrival to anyone who might be listening. There was no reply, but he got the distinct feeling that someone, or something, had heard nonetheless. Staring at its inhospitable looking cloud cover, the captain found himself feeling the first stirrings of something like fear.

"Still nothing from the sensors, captain," T'Pol told him quietly.

"Hoshi. Hail on all frequencies." Everyone watched as she went through the standard procedure, but after a moment she shook her head. "Nothing, captain. Not even static."

He gave the order for a probe to be launched. The small bright projectile fizzed away from the ship's underbelly and vanished.

"Entering the stratosphere, Captain." Malcolm was tracking its flight via the tactical console.

"Receiving telemetry." After a moment or two the science officer frowned. "Transmission lost."

"_Lost?" _Archer turned in his chair. "You mean it exploded or something? Was it attacked?"

"I can't say, sir. Our scanners lost it as soon as it entered the troposphere." Malcolm shrugged helplessly.

"What data we did receive revealed traces of hyrellanium," said T'Pol slowly. "That would explain why we lost contact with the probe, and why our sensors are unable to penetrate the atmosphere. There was also extreme turbulence in the troposphere. This may simply have been too severe for the probe's guidance system to deal with."

"We could prep a second probe with an upgraded guidance system," suggested Reed. "If we pull the warhead from a Mark II and have the science team put together a sensor pack ..."

"How long?" interrupted Archer.

The lieutenant thought for a moment. "We can have the chassis stripped down by the end of the shift. How long to prepare the sensor pack, Sub-Commander?"

"We would require twenty four hours to design, build and test the sensor pack," replied T'Pol.

"And then we need to reassemble ..." Reed turned back to Archer. "Two days, give or take," he said.

The captain hesitated and exchanged a glance with T'Pol. "That's too long," he ruled. He punched in the comm. code for Engineering. "Trip, have your people get a shuttle ready. We're going to need it for a quick flypast."

"Yes, sir."

In happier days it would have been a cheerful 'Will do, Cap'n', but Archer hadn't time right now to worry about the uncharacteristic tension in that reply; it was one more of the things that he had to shove uneasily into the back of his mind to be dealt with at some other time. He was guiltily aware of the deterioration in his relationship with Trip, but couldn't seem to find a way of trying to patch things up without embarking on a discussion that was far too likely to cause a serious breach between them. If he couldn't understand himself what had happened to him, how could he possibly expect Trip to do so?

"Travis, I want you to man the shuttle," he said aloud. "T'Pol, you'll be in charge of the scanners: see if there's anything you can find out at close quarters. Malcolm, I want you to go along as well."

"Me, sir?" The tactical officer looked surprised for a second, then nodded obediently and rose from his station. He would doubtless contact the armory on his way down to the shuttle bay and arrange for his deputy Ensign Muller to take his place on the bridge in his absence. Ensign Franks had been carrying out a few standard checks on circuitry in the situation room, and moved forward to take the helm from Travis. Hoshi was fully capable of keeping a weather eye on the science station, in view of the fact that nobody seemed interested in initiating a conversation with the ship right now.

"Wait a minute." He stayed the shuttle party with a quick gesture. "I want you to take one short dip inside the troposphere, that's all. See if you can scan the surface, if the sensors can pick anything up about it from there. One look and come out again. If you can't find anything just forget the whole thing. And don't take chances – any chances whatsoever. For any reason. Understood?"

They nodded or murmured assent and trooped out. He was left to wait and watch. A situation with which he was becoming all too familiar, but which he had never found easy to endure.

Receiving the message from the shuttle bay that the 'pod was now safely on its way, Archer watched the view-screen intently, trying to ignore the causeless knot of apprehension that was tightening in his stomach with every second. What they were doing was logical – it would have been hard to find an excuse for passing by such a mysterious planet without giving away their real reason for haste. There was no evidence of anything that would threaten the shuttle, after all. They didn't even have to land the shuttle on the planet itself, just run a brief pass through the lower atmosphere to find out what lay beneath that seemingly impenetrable layer, and return with the data. With the ship sailing serenely in orbit he'd followed his instincts by detailing Travis to take the shuttle's helm. He didn't doubt that Malcolm was a perfectly capable pilot, but Travis was the more experienced of the two – and not having the responsibility for flying the vessel would leave the tactical officer free to respond immediately to any emergency that might occur.

Emergency – why the heck should there be any emergency? His nerves were fraying. It didn't help that Trip had come up from Engineering and was messing intermittently with something in the wiring behind the tactical station he said there was a problem with. There had been something in Tucker's voice that told him this was just an excuse to keep an eye on events, but right here and right now wasn't the place or the time to start an argument about it.

The shuttle dipped away quietly towards the planet. The ship was tranquil. Everyone on the bridge was calmly manning their stations.

_"NO!"_ A scream that would have burst his eardrums if it had been audible crashed through his brain. In pure reflex his hand slammed down on the comm. "Get out of there!" he yelled. "Travis, pull out! Pull out!"

There was no reply.

* * *

On board the shuttle, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed sat silently watching the instrumentation visible to him. With Travis at the helm and T'Pol manning the scanners, and no immediate expectation of his being required to man the weapons console – although he was, of course, poised and ready to do so if needed – he had little to do but wait and watch events.

It wasn't immediately obvious to him why the captain had been so insistent on his making one of the shuttle team; it would have been more comprehensible if there had been any intention of landing anywhere, or testing any weapons, or even any suggestion that there might be any ships in the vicinity – potentially hostile or otherwise. Nevertheless, it wasn't his job to question orders. At least, he comforted himself grimly, if they did end up landing there wouldn't be any water for him to worry about drowning in. In the unlikely event of this planet harbouring H2O in any volume, at this distance from its sun there wouldn't be a drop of it that wasn't perpetually frozen solid. Although, his pessimistic side gloomily pointed out, if one took this to its logical conclusion it would _theoretically_ still be possible to for him to drown in any liquid gas such as methane, which occurs on many planets and has a freezing point of minus 182.47°C.

The fact that even the atmosphere was resisting the scanners was rather more worrying than the possibility of his meeting a gruesome end submerged in liquid methane, though. Apart from the question of what the inner atmosphere itself might be made of, there could be any amount of flotsam lurking in there. The shuttle was built to withstand quite considerable impacts, but a head-on with anything of any real size could be disastrous. For that reason the order for them to take only the briefest and shallowest of dips into it to see if anything could be detected underneath the tropopause was both logical and comfortable. If not, they'd been forbidden to take any chances and he personally would make sure they didn't.

Malcolm frowned, recalling the captain's repeated emphasis on that instruction. Normally, Archer was a damned sight too keen on taking chances for his liking – though in all fairness, usually when it was his own neck on the block as opposed to anyone else's. This excessive caution was rather unlike him. It was, of course, technically possible that he was finally coming around to sharing his tactical officer's viewpoint of extreme suspicion of practically everything, but (welcome though this would have been) it was a mite unlikely. It could only be concluded that it was this particular mission that the captain was worried about for some reason. The fact that he hadn't admitted this, or divulged that reason, was a worry in itself; and if there was anything other than shooting weapons and causing explosions in which Lieutenant Reed was a past master, it was the art of worrying. Out of the sheer want of something to do to take his mind off things, he removed the phase pistol from its clip at his belt and checked the power cell in it quite unnecessarily.

"Just coming to the tropopause. Might pick up a little turbulence, but it shouldn't be anything we can't handle." Travis's voice was cheerfully confident. "Any change in the readings yet, Sub-Commander?"

"None." The Vulcan's slender fingers ran lightly over the scanner controls. "Please exercise caution, Ensign. We have no means of knowing what visibility will be like when we penetrate the upper layers of the troposphere."

Bloody hell. Now even T'Pol was telling them to be careful. Malcolm checked the power cell again, followed by the pistol setting, which wasn't remotely likely to have changed itself. Was he the only one around here who didn't know what the problem was?

It was like falling head first into icy water. It was _worse_ than falling head first into icy water. Light simply vanished from the universe, along with oxygen and coherent thought. There was the sound of a shriek, but it could have been only the reaction of his brain: the overriding sensation was of absolute, mind-rending horror. His fingers clenched on the pistol. He knew he was pressing the trigger but nothing happened and he couldn't stop anyway. Not that there was anything to fire at. Nor could he have summoned the co-ordination to aim even if there had been.

The emergency lighting should have come on if the power had failed. It hadn't. There was only a silence that screamed in their ears, waiting for the whistle of air that would signal the start of the long, sickening descent through the utter darkness to the frozen surface thousands of metres below. From this height and at this trajectory, they'd burn up like a meteor. None of them would survive until impact – unless they were extremely unlucky.

Suddenly light burst into existence around and inside the shuttle again and the stars were slewing across the view screen. T'Pol was out of her seat, literally fighting the helm away from Travis. The young helmsman was struggling and sobbing in the Vulcan's grip, while the shuttle was bucking and veering through space. They were heading back towards Enterprise as fast as the thrusters could drive them, but they would never be able to make any kind of controlled approach. The sleek silver shape of the ship appeared in the distance, coming closer at ominous speed. Even if they didn't smash headlong into her, at this velocity even the tiniest clip against the hull would send them into a spin that would smash them around its insides like so many china dolls in a tumble dryer. From the comm. station the hails from Enterprise were continuous and desperate, adding to the uproar.

His brain in so much chaos that he couldn't even imagine what had happened, or what was happening now, Reed reacted instinctively to an obvious assault on a member of the crew. He sprang up, releasing the trigger of the weapon that was blasting uselessly into the deck plating beside him, and pressed the muzzle of it to the back of the science officer's head. "Let go of him!" he yelled.

"Certainly, Lieutenant." She knew what was going on; she stopped immediately, though she didn't release Mayweather's wrists. "But if you would lean over and check this warning light first, I think it would ensure the safety of the shuttlepod afterwards."

That got through to him. The safety of the shuttle was paramount. Still panting with fear, he transferred the pistol to his other hand and leaned his weight across Travis's heaving chest, trying to see the warning light that the Vulcan's urgent nod had indicated. Down there it had to be something to do with life support. They couldn't afford to have anything go wrong with that...

He would later reflect bitterly that even when he was out of his head with terror and shock he should have known better than to let a Vulcan get even partly behind him. His attention had been sufficiently diverted to let the pistol muzzle waver just off target. He didn't even see T'Pol's right hand momentarily release Travis's wrist just long enough to slide into the angle of his neck.

The phase pistol clattered to the deck.

A moment later his inert body followed it.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Will someone tell me what the hell happened here?"

Commander Tucker had watched helplessly like the rest of the horrified bridge crew as the shuttle pursued its frenzied course towards them and eventually missed a collision by the narrowest of margins. Muller had put the ship instantly on red alert without even waiting to be ordered to do so, ordering all hands to brace for impact; they had all waited, hardly daring to breathe, until the shuttle, now back under control, was at last hauled on board and declared safe. At that instant Captain Archer had sprung from his chair like a greyhound released from a trap and vanished into the turbo-lift, leaving Trip with the bridge.

In such a situation – where the unexplained events might presage others equally if not more threatening – the chief engineer hadn't even considered disobeying. He'd sat bolt upright in the captain's chair, glaring at the inoffensive view-screen until the instruction came through the comm to stand the ship down from alert. At which point he felt himself released from the duty of trying to stare a planet down and followed the captain immediately. From an official point of view, the ship had just escaped a catastrophe that would have robbed it of three officers in its chain of command, not to mention anyone unfortunate enough to be behind the site of impact if the shuttle had hit head-on. From a professional point of view, he wanted to know exactly and in detail what, if anything, had gone mechanically wrong with a vessel that his department was in charge of keeping in tip-top shape at all times. From a personal point of view he'd nearly lost a good friend, a very close friend, and a woman who'd got herself so wound into his thoughts that hardly a quarter-hour of his waking life went by without her existence crossing them in some form or other. If anyone with four rank pips on the breast of his uniform (naming no names) thought he was just going to sit idly by while others investigated that, then they had another think coming.

Now he burst into the shuttle bay, dreading what he was going to find.

A number of men he recognized as his own staff were helping to carry two bodies out of the shuttle under Dr Phlox's direction. Glimpsing T'Pol's distinctive cat-suit upright inside it, he realized with a lurch of the heart that the two casualties must of course be Travis and Malcolm. Too alarmed and impatient to take the stairs in the conventional way, he braced his hands on the rails and slid down with his feet high, landing just behind the nearest startled spectator, who just happened to be the captain. He braced himself for a reprimand, but Archer was obviously far too disturbed even to think of it. "Is she – Are they okay?" he demanded.

"I think so." The other man had been one of the first into the shuttle, but after a first tense and summing look around had retreated to allow the two unconscious but at least still living officers to be examined and carried out. Fortunately he was too preoccupied to hear that slightly revealing slip. "Phlox?"

"Yes, I believe so, Captain, but I'd rather not speculate until I've had time to run some tests." Phlox was bending over Travis, frowning at the readings on his medi-scanner. He rapped out orders to his helpers to take both casualties to sickbay – "and you too, Sub-commander, if you don't mind!"

"I do not believe I require assistance, Doctor." The Vulcan stepped calmly out of the shuttle. Trip stared at her, checking feverishly for signs of illness or injury and marveling at her sang-froid. An experience like this must have been terrifying in anyone's book, but she hardly seemed concerned at all.

"Allow me to be the judge of that." The Denobulan straightened up and looked sternly at her. "Until we establish exactly what happened, you must be considered a potential casualty as well. If the captain wishes to begin questioning you on what happened, he can do so in sickbay presently."

Auxiliary staff from sickbay had brought down gurneys and with due care the two men were transferred on to them. As the party walked swiftly down the corridors Trip took the opportunity to look searchingly at Malcolm's face, which was very pale. The hair at the tactical officer's temples was wet with sweat; his forehead was still damp with it, but his skin was cold, showing no evidence of a fever. On the other gurney Travis moved restlessly and uttered what sounded like a faint moan.

"You may need to sedate both of them, Doctor." T'Pol had been offered a gurney but had declined it, instead walking sedately between the other two. A couple of sickbay personnel were flanking her in case of any sudden collapse, but she showed no likelihood of it. Archer was on her left side, and also watching her closely, his mouth set in a grim line of anxiety.

"Thank you for your warning, Sub-commander. I shall bear it in mind." The double door with the caduceus emblems appeared in front of them and hissed open. "Now, if you please, Captain, Commander, leave me to do my job first and then you can have all the time you wish to interrogate whoever I deem able to withstand it without danger to themselves." For all his amiable demeanor and frequent oversized smiles, the Denobulan was a professional through and through when his skills were required. Starfleet regulations were entirely on his side, and the swish of a privacy curtain excluded both Tucker and Archer with merciless efficiency, leaving them side by side to stare helplessly at the unrevealing expanse of white plastic and glean what they could from the murmurs on the other side.

* * *

Both of the casualties regained consciousness perhaps ten minutes after being rushed into sickbay. Travis was the first. His eyes opened in astonishment. He simply lay there with an expression of total amazement at his surroundings and demanded to know how he'd got there.

"Do you remember anything?" the doctor asked him gently, running the medi-scanner over him.

"No, Doc. We were in the shuttle..." He tried to sit up, a look of panic coming into his face. "The shuttle-! Is it okay? We didn't crash it or anything?"

"No, Ensign, the shuttle is perfectly fine. It is you and Lieutenant Reed I am concerned with at present."

"The Lieutenant?" Travis turned to stare at the still figure in the adjoining biobed. "Did he get sick too?"

"We are not yet sure what happened to either of you. And until we find out, you will oblige me by staying down on that bed." Phlox gently pushed him flat.

"And Sub-commander T'Pol?" asked the helmsman, agitated. "She's okay, isn't she?"

"I am in perfect health, Ensign." The quiet voice from the bed to his left him made him jump.

"The lieutenant's temperature is coming back up to normal now." Phlox's assistant Liz Cutler was checking the readouts above the beds. "And I think he's waking up."

"But what happened?" persisted Travis anxiously.

"That is what we are trying to find out." The science officer swung her legs to one side of the bed and leaned over to part the curtain to speak to the captain, who was wearing a groove in the deck plating by his pacing to and fro while he listened to all of this. "Has Commander Tucker gone to obtain the data records from the shuttlepod?"

"Yes. He wanted something to do." Archer did too, and if he didn't get something soon he was going to start seriously considering circumventing Starfleet regulations. "Are you okay?"

"I am perfectly well. My presence here is completely superfluous." She glanced back at Phlox. "Doctor, may I speak to the captain? I will not leave sickbay until you give permission."

"Very well, Sub-commander. Lieutenant, lie _still!_"

She slipped through the curtain. "I should give you a preliminary report, Captain. It will of course need to be verified by the technical data records when Commander Tucker can analyze them." She took a deep breath and expressionlessly related what had taken place. "I have no logical explanation for what happened. Unless the data from the shuttle suggests any alternative, I believe that there was no mechanical failure of any of the shuttle's systems." A much longer pause; she was evidently considering her next words carefully, and when they came they were spoken very softly, for his ears alone. "I believe that – something – on the planet perceived our presence."

He stared at her blankly. "'Something'?" His own voice was equally low.

There was no doubt about it: her expression was very uncomfortable. "I became aware of – a presence of some kind. Something of enormous power. And it was deeply hostile. I felt – a hatred almost beyond description. I have no doubt that this was what overpowered Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Mayweather."

"So why didn't it have the same effect on you?" he demanded.

"A Vulcan brain is different from a Human's in several ways, Captain. I can only speculate that whatever it was, I was able to resist it more effectively."

_" 'Resist'?"_ He cocked his head to one side, frowning.

"For whatever reason, whatever happened did not incapacitate me mentally. The medi-scanners have confirmed that. I do not feel changed in any way. The only other sensation I was aware of at the time was intense cold." She paused. "But both Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Mayweather reacted immediately. They appeared to feel intense fear, though I am not sure of what. The Lieutenant, indeed, threatened to shoot me while I was trying to take control of the shuttle. I was unfortunately obliged to take rather drastic measures."

"Which is why they were both unconscious." It wasn't a question and she didn't respond to it as one.

He turned away and stared unseeingly at the door of the decon chamber. Shiránnor had believed implicitly in the existence of a 'supernatural entity' on her world. He'd dismissed it as so much superstitious nonsense.

Could he have been wrong?

No. There must be a rational explanation. He wasn't going down the 'God' route. He _couldn't. _If there was something there, it was an alien intelligence of some kind. Powerful, beyond doubt – but that was all. The days were long past when humanity had to account for the unexplained by attributing it to 'gods' and 'demons.'

But what had just happened was going to take some explaining away in his log entry for the day.

"What the helI am I doing here? I'm fine. Honestly, I'm fine!" It was evident that the ship's tactical officer had now also returned to consciousness, and to the discovery – never a particularly welcome one to him – that he was once again in sickbay.

"If you do not lay still, Lieutenant, I will sedate you." Phlox sounded exasperated, as well he might. "Until you co-operate you will not get out of here. So you might as well just lie back and let me run my tests, and then you can speak to the captain."

"The captain's here?"

"On the other side of that curtain. Waiting – impatiently, I might add – for me to be finished with you."

Reed evidently subsided, for there were no more complaints.

Five minutes later the doctor swished the curtain back and came out to the captain. Behind him the two patients were now visible, sitting up in bed and waiting with identical expressions of apprehension for his verdict. "As far as I can determine, there was no physical reason for these men to be affected in any way. The only thing that was wrong with them was a drop in body temperature, and that has righted itself. But the chemicals in their brains suggest that they suffered some kind of severe emotional disturbance."

At that moment Trip came back in, just in time to catch this part of the conversation. "That ties up with the data, Cap'n. No evidence of anythin' happenin' out of the ordinary till the shuttle hit the inner atmosphere. Then the navigation record goes haywire, but it's nothin' to do with the systems. They all check out just fine. Travis must have been steerin' like a mayfly in a tornado."

"I was?" croaked the unfortunate helmsman. "I don't remember a thing!"

"That may well be a defensive mechanism of the brain itself," Phlox put in immediately. "If subjected to a deeply traumatic experience, the brain has the capacity to wipe out the memory. It would appear that whatever happened was so disturbing that neither the lieutenant nor the ensign can recall anything of it for that reason."

"But otherwise they're fine?" asked the captain.

The Denobulan shrugged. "Medically, yes. There is no reason why they should stay here, but I'd be happier if they could be relieved of duty for the rest of the day so they could rest in their quarters. And that means rest, Lieutenant," he added, fixing Malcolm with a beady blue eye.

"You heard him." Archer added an equally beady hazel one.

"Yes, sir," muttered the two patients with varying degrees of resignation.

"And Trip, I want you to arrange for a warning buoy to be deployed in orbit around that planet and then get us back underway again. I think we've seen all we want to see of it, but that might save someone else from a tragedy one day." Under different circumstances, he might have been a lot more curious about what had happened, but all he could feel right now was gratitude that he hadn't lost any of the shuttle's passengers. And, of course, still the same sickening anxiety to get to Kerriel and find one of those blasted parasites so Phlox could get to work on manufacturing an antivenin.

As the two men left Sickbay, the chief engineer stopped suddenly. "It's no use. I've gotta ask."

"Ask what, Trip?" The captain knew he had a defensive note in his voice, and worse, the same look on his face.

"You know what I'm talkin' about." The blue eyes were uncomfortably searching. "You knew there was a problem before they did."

"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Try me." His folded arms and lifted chin suggested he was prepared to wait as long as necessary.

Archer exhaled. "Okay. I got a warning."

"A _warning?_ You mean some kind of instinct?"

"No. It was a whole lot more than that. I yelled out because _she_ yelled out. Now go call Phlox and get me certified unfit for duty." Frustration, anxiety and guilt were making him hostile. The strain of the intervening weeks had already taken their toll; now even he was beginning to wonder if he wasn't heading for some kind of a mental crisis that could endanger the ship.

"'She' bein' Shiránnor." From Trip's expression the summons to Phlox was a distinct possibility. "At this distance from the planet she knew what we were doin' and told you it was dangerous?"

"If she'd 'told me it was dangerous' I wouldn't have sent them down there in the first place!" snapped the captain. "I just felt what she felt, for that one second. I don't have any explanation for it. But it was right!"

"But it wasn't just then, was it, Cap'n?" The engineer's gaze sparked with anger. "You were antsy right from the start. I've never heard you fussin' like that. Tellin' them to be careful over and over again. Even Malcolm was wonderin', from the look on his face!"

"If we send a team down in a shuttle to investigate a planet that seems to be acting in a way that's different from anything else we've ever encountered, then I'm going to want them to be careful!" He was shocked to realize he was actually shouting. "If you truly think I'm unfit for duty then do something about it. I'm sure you can look up the procedure. Till then, I'm the captain. Now I'm going back to the bridge, unless you've anything else you want to question me about!"

After a moment's strained silence he turned around and stalked off towards the turbo-lift. If he'd turned around, as a large part of him wanted to do, he'd have seen nothing more on his friend's face but the fervent wish that they'd never set eyes on this whole goddamn star system, hyrellanium or no hyrellanium.

But he didn't.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Right. I've asked you here because I think it's time you were filled in on the reason why we've returned to this planet." Captain Archer's level gaze travelled over the two officers standing in front of him in his ready room the next morning. Trip had been summoned from Engineering; Malcolm had just passed a check in Sickbay and reported for duty, apparently fully fit. "I'm aware that there's been speculation about this, but I had a good reason for keeping you in the dark till now. There was a privacy issue involved, and the person concerned requested that it be kept that way for as long as possible." He drew a deep breath and continued in a slightly less formal mode of speech. "Both of you know that during our last visit T'Pol was attacked – bitten – by some parasitic creature that obviously intended her as a host for its offspring. Phlox got the offspring out, and everybody thought that was the end of it.

"But it wasn't. The toxin she was injected with has a secondary purpose. It attacks the host's body. As best I understand it, it sort of starts melting it down to get it ready for consumption." He swallowed, seeing in the growing pallor of the faces opposite him what his own must have looked like when he was given the news. "Phlox hasn't been able to manufacture an antidote. He believes his best chance is for us to get hold of one of the adult creatures and give him some of the original toxin to work with. Personally I'm hoping that the people who have to live with these parasites may have developed some kind of treatment, perhaps even a cure … they seem to know what they're doing with drugs."

"How long has she known?" asked Trip. His eyes were blue pools of horror.

"We turned around as soon as we found out. Apparently there weren't many severe symptoms at first. She went to the doc because she started to develop bruising for no reason. He's been able to give her something to help her cope – to keep her alive, basically, till we can get back to the planet and find him a specimen to work on. But if we can't do that he won't be able to keep the toxin from killing her."

"It may come in handy after all, that you made a friend when you were there, Captain. We've just got to find her when we arrive." Lieutenant Reed refrained from mentioning what they all knew – that the planet's crust was laced with a mineral that inhibited their scanners and the person they desperately needed to find was known to take shelter in abandoned burrows.

"That's exactly what I'm hoping to do, Malcolm." He held up a hand in warning. "But I don't want you behaving any differently towards T'Pol in front of anyone else in the meantime. She specifically asked for confidentiality because she didn't want the ship's routine disrupted or the crew upset. The more we can keep this between ourselves, the happier she'll be, and right now that's what matters to me the most till we can get this thing beaten."

"Sure, Cap'n."

"Of course, sir."

"Right." He pointed to two glasses with a finger of amber liquid in each that sat on the table behind them. "You put one of these down each of you and take five minutes to get your heads straight before you go back out there. And I know it's against regulations, Malcolm, but these are exceptional circumstances and that's an order."

"Oh. Right, sir." Shooting a shrewd glance at his stunned fellow-officer, Reed picked up both glasses and shoved one of them into Trip's nerveless fingers. "Come on, sir, get it down you. Captain's orders." He downed his own, staring at the deck plating because doing so was far less of an intrusion than looking at what was showing on Commander Tucker's face just then.

Trip glanced blankly at the glass, lifted it to his mouth and tossed back the contents. Apart from eliciting a single blink in response to the neat spirit burning its way down into his stomach it might as well have been water. "How long does she have?"

"A couple of months, perhaps, if it's not treated soon." Archer made no attempt to soften the bleak truth. "We've got time, but not much."

"I'll find one of those blasted things if I have to take every goddamn tree on the planet apart," the engineer said through his teeth.

"Well, it may not come to that. They may already have a cure. We'll be there in a few minutes and then we'll know one way or the other." He looked hard at his tactical officer. "I'd prefer to take you along if possible. Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Just try and stop me, Captain."

"I'll get back to Engineerin' now and get 'em working on preppin' the shuttle. And in the meantime I've got a few minutes to spare, so Malcolm and I are goin' to see what we can do to make the scanners see through hyrellanium ore, just in case."

Lieutenant Reed opened his mouth to say that it couldn't be done – at least certainly not by two stressed-out Starfleet officers in a couple of minutes – but shut it again. There were times when it simply wasn't worth arguing; and one of those was when you were talking to Trip Tucker in love.

* * *

Trip looked anxiously at T'Pol as the science officer joined them in the shuttle bay.

She obviously knew that he and Malcolm had now been let into the secret. If she felt uncomfortable with that, it didn't show; her demeanor was still as calm as ever. She certainly didn't look as if she was suffering from a life-threatening condition. Good old Phlox. Even if he couldn't cure her, at least he'd bought them some time. At that moment Trip could have kissed even the doc's Pyrithian bat.

The revelation had gone some way towards explaining the captain's apparently autocratic actions and subsequent short temper. If time had been less pressing he'd have sought out some opportunity for trying to smooth things over on that score, but now that would just have to wait, even if his conscience continued to prick him for not having had more trust in a man who had earned it on so many occasions in the past.

Even while he and Malcolm had been working feverishly and unavailingly on modifying the ship's scanners to penetrate hyrellanium in the very short time they'd had since leaving the ready room, his mind had been frantically replaying the time line between himself and T'Pol. That … well, 'confrontation' they'd had … if that was the word, but it probably hadn't been anything like explosive enough to be called a confrontation …. At least it had happened before the ship's about-face. She hadn't known then, at least she probably hadn't … and ever since then he'd treated her with perfect Vulcan-style correctness. No bothering her with inappropriate curiosity; he'd kept his frustrations out of view and tried his damnedest to tell himself that sooner or later she'd come to her senses and realize that this thing wasn't going to go away. At least he could comfort himself with the conviction that he hadn't allowed himself to go mooning around the ship with his heart on his sleeve making things harder for her than they already were. Except that from her perspective things were about to get a whole lot harder, and after she'd done just about everything she could to slam the door in his face why would she imagine he'd still be waiting for her on the other side of it? In so many ways she knew so little about Humans, and even less about love. As this dawned on him it had been all he could do not to groan aloud. He must have done one helluva job convincing her he didn't give a damn any more. She'd had to confide in Jon, who was pretty well in the same condition he was and dealing with it just as badly, but who at least hadn't thrown up a No Entry sign across his ready room door. And Jon, already raw from having what must have been a deep emotional connection torn away from him, would be sensitive to another person's emotional pain … and maybe even desperate enough to believe that becoming involved with someone else in the same pain he was in himself would bring some kind of consolation for both of them.

Oh, this whole thing was just a _mess. _But it would wait till they'd gotten the antivenin created. That was the important thing. Once T'Pol was back to full health – back to her impassive, exasperating, zinging-Tucker-with-one-eyebrow best – then that would be the time to sort other things out, once and for all.

Malcolm had gone into the shuttle first and was checking the preparations. They weren't sure how long they'd have to be down there, so they were taking supplies and tents for a couple of days, just in case. Trip watched as the tactical officer silently and ostentatiously placed a phase pistol on top of each rucksack and pointedly lifted the lid of one of the storage lockers to show anybody who might just be looking that there were rifles in there, including the specially modified one he'd brought along for himself. Although he seemed to have absolved Ensign McKenna of some of the blame for the security catastrophes that had marked the previous visit, he must have been appalled by their mistakes, because he sure wasn't erring on the side of incaution this time. Hell, he was going to be _real_ fun to be with down there. Talk about three sheep and a sheep-dog with attitude.

The landing party was just settling into their seats when the comm. chirped. "Bridge to Captain Archer."

"Archer here." He was in the co-pilot's seat.

"Sir, we have a ship on long-range scanners. It's not heading this way, but it won't pass far enough to miss us if it keeps on its present course."

"Do we have any idea what it is?"

"Initial readings suggest it could be a Klingon Bird of Prey, sir."

The news could hardly have been worse. Relations between Starfleet and the Klingon Empire were not exactly cordial. Captain Archer had been rescued from a prison sentence in the penal colony of Rura Penthe not so long ago, and his recapture would be high on their priority list. If the warship's crew noticed the _Enterprise_ in orbit they would almost certainly come to investigate. It would be the work of a moment for their scanners to detect the presence of that very high quality hyrellanium ore, and that would give them all the answers they needed for the question of what the ship was doing there. It would also give them reason to invade the planet and plunder it, if they were so minded. Although this system did not lie within the Empire's official border, it was not so far distant from it that annexation would be unthinkable, given the potential gains. Quite apart from the risk of _Enterprise _being drawn into a vicious and possibly losing battle to defend the captain, the consequences for the inhabitants did not bear thinking of. At any cost, the warship's attention must not be drawn to this insignificant world.

These inescapable facts passed in review in the minds of every one of the shuttlepod's passengers in the space of thirty seconds.

"We shall have to return another time, Captain." T'Pol maintained an immobile mask.

"We don't _have_ 'another time'." Trip tried hard not to grind his teeth together. "You don't know how long it's gonna take us to find one of these creatures. Or how long it's gonna take Phlox to manufacture the antivenin when we do. And we don't know how long that blasted ship out there's gonna hang around here. It might not even _be_ a Klingon vessel."

"I've got an idea." Malcolm frowned, obviously thinking furiously. "If we could find some kind of stellar phenomenon not too far away – something that emits a lot of radiation – _Enterprise_ could put down a landing party here as we originally planned, then fly off and hide. If they don't spot us, with any luck they'll just keep going. Then the ship can come back and pick us up. Or better still, we can appoint a rendezvous at a decent distance, just to be on the safe side – the chances of their picking up the shuttle from any distance have to be fairly remote."

"There is a trinary star cluster quite close by." T'Pol consulted her padd. "One of the stars is in the process of collapse and a considerable amount of its material is being drawn into the other two. It constitutes a somewhat hostile area of space. It will not be comfortable, but I am confident that the ship could withstand the conditions there for a short time." She looked at Archer steadily. "It would, however, be exceptionally dangerous for an escaped prisoner to be effectively stranded on a planet while a Klingon warship was in the vicinity. And if by any mischance _Enterprise _should be discovered, Captain, your best chance of escape would be aboard her."

Her commanding officer closed his eyes. There was no doubt of it. They all knew it. However desperately he longed – for whatever reasons – to go down to the planet again, his duty was to be with his ship. If the worst came to the worst and they should become engaged in a battle, he had to be in command.

"You can trust Muller to man the weapons station for you, sir." There was absolute confidence in Malcolm's voice. "He's about as good as it gets."

"I guess after what happened down there last time I'd better send my _best _shot down with this pair." A faint smile took the sting from Archer's words. He swung the seat around and stood up, catching up his rucksack. "I'll send a coded burst to your communicators when we decide on a rendezvous point. Till then we maintain silence except in an absolute emergency."

"Understood, Cap'n." Trip had been expecting to have to mount a ferocious argument to persuade the captain to stay on the ship; he was relieved that his old friend had seen sense for once. "Give that trinary system my regards."

"The same to Shiránnor… if you happen to bump into her." There were so many shadowy tones in the reply that it was impossible to interpret half of them; but nobody could doubt that as Jonathan Archer left the shuttle he was still a desperately divided man.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

In the intervening weeks winter had come early to the High Plains.

The clouds hung low, scudding on a spiteful wind. The herds had long gone. The grass was like a sea of attenuated ghosts, scorched by frost; it whispered amazement at their return.

During the approach the shuttle passed low over the mining site. Wind and sleet had begun softening out the edges of the blasting scars – when the warmth returned the snow-melt would lie in the hollows, a haven for wildlife. Not far from where they had landed, a pack of grey animals quarreled over a handful of bleached bones.

The river gully was directly ahead of them, cut like a wound into the flesh of the plain. Trip was piloting the shuttle, and brought it lightly to land as close to it as possible.

"Phase pistols to hand at all times, please," Malcolm reminded the other two members of the landing party as they prepared to exit. "And if – _when_ – we find one of the parasite-creatures, please let me do the shooting if possible." He hefted a rifle. "We want one alive for preference, but if you feel you or anyone else is in any danger whatsoever just shoot first and ask questions later." They had a net in one of the rucksacks of course, but given that they were dealing with a creature which posed such a deadly threat to its victims, the security officer felt very much happier with the thought of immobilizing it before even attempting to catch it.

"Business as usual, hey, Malcolm?" murmured Trip teasingly.

"It's the first time I've had to impersonate a zoo keeper. Oddly enough, catching wild animals didn't figure particularly strongly in my Security training."

They opened the door. The wind from outside burst in and slapped them hard, making them thankful for the thickness of their jackets.

"Will you be okay?" Tucker turned to T'Pol in some concern. Under ordinary circumstances he probably wouldn't have asked, but these weren't ordinary circumstances. Her physical condition was now far from robust.

"I do not anticipate this mission taking long. Your concern is appreciated, however."

Reed caught his friend's wry grimace.

* * *

The mission, as they had envisaged it, certainly didn't take long.

All around them the trees were silent, so that the sound of their feet among the mounded dead leaves was shockingly loud. Rime rimmed the bare twigs and the twisted, skeletal heaps of bramble that lay among the trees. Not even the wind moved. Overhead, beyond the still black tracery of naked boughs, the sky was a pale, washed-out blue that crackled with cold.

The thicket was bare and deserted. Hardly a leaf remained on the branches. The undergrowth was sere and shriveled. Repeated sweeps of the scanners revealed hardly anything bigger than hibernating insects wedged into crevices in the bark.

"This was the tree." The science officer stopped beside one that was tall and sturdy, with whitish bark mottled with cloudy grey markings. She remembered it with painful clarity.

"They've gone," said Trip blankly as they ended their third fruitless search of the area. "Unless there was only the one and it..."

"Came to a sticky end," finished Malcolm darkly. "If the situation was different I'd say good riddance. Unfortunately, it isn't."

"There is a good deal of forest further down river," T'Pol pointed out calmly. "_Enterprise_ will probably be absent for some days. We have more than sufficient time for continuing our search."

Tucker looked at her dubiously. "It could be a hike. Will you … be up to that? Or shall we go back and get the shuttle and fly down?"

"I am not an invalid, Commander."

Their expressions indicated that they would have liked to argue, even if she hadn't outranked them both; but she wanted to make as few concessions to her condition as possible, and by Vulcan standards the reply had been rather tart. After returning to the shuttle to fetch what they would need for a longer hike, they set off, crossing the river to follow the route that Trip had been taken by his kidnappers.

"Not that I remember a whole lot of it," he admitted. "I was just too shaken up to pay that much attention." He cocked an eye at Malcolm. "How is McKenna, by the way?"

"Back at work. On light duties only, of course. Begging me never to send him on an away mission with you again." A malicious grin. "Just one mission and you broke his nerve, the poor man."

"Should'a brought him with us down to Risa."

"_Don't mention that place._" The grin vanished; he shuddered.

"Your report on what exactly happened on Risa was singularly vague," remarked T'Pol, recalling the incident. "I think the captain would have liked further clarification."

"Just a cultural ... misunderstandin', Sub-commander," answered the chief engineer in something of a hurry as Malcolm scowled. "Nothin' serious at all."

"It must have been quite a serious misunderstanding to have involved you losing all your clothes," she commented. For some reason the episode had obviously caused considerable perturbation to both of them, and her curiosity was mildly piqued.

"If it had just been Trip's shirt they took I'd have thought it might have been something to do with Risa's Sartorial Standards Regulations." Reed plainly decided that attacking his fellow victim was the best form of defense. "They must have some."

"Now hold on there!" Commander Tucker inflated with delighted indignation as a familiar avenue of bickering opened up. "There was nothin' wrong with my shirt!"

"Nothing that being bleached and put down a waste disposal unit wouldn't have cured."

"Well your damned shirt was so boring, if you'd'a stood still for two minutes you'd have disappeared into the wallpaper!"

"At least somebody would have had my shirt pattern for wallpaper. In a quite upmarket establishment, actually. They wouldn't have used yours in a cheap curry restaurant in downtown Hong Kong. It'd have put the diners off their food."

"Gentlemen," T'Pol said mildly, "we may be alone in this area at present, but we should bear in mind that the ship is no longer in orbit to warn us of anyone approaching our position, so it would be wise not to make too much noise."

"Yeah, like the ship did a fine job of warnin' us last time!" Trip lowered his voice somewhat but went back into the attack on another old grievance.

Malcolm glared. "We were in the middle of a _tactical exercise, sir,_" he hissed. "One that, as I believe I've mentioned before, _you_ should have been taking part in. And if you had been – or even if you'd confined yourself to just plotting the blasting site, which is what you came down here for in the first place – then you wouldn't have been in a position to inflame the locals!"

The Vulcan sighed. It was like being in charge of two poorly disciplined children. "And the creatures we are searching for may have extremely good hearing."

That shut them both up.

* * *

They reached the camp site just over an hour later. The gully had offered pockets of forestation right up to that point, but here it ended. Although there had been a fair number of the right sort of tree, and the landing party had scanned every tree they came across anyway, the situation was the same: the whole area was empty of any life of any significant size whatsoever.

"I can't believe this!" Trip looked around in despair. "Did somebody beam every one of these critters into space or somethin'?"

"We do not know anything about their life cycle," T'Pol pointed out. "It may be that having laid their 'egg', they die. That would account for none being left."

"Oh, great." He ran a hand through his blond hair, rumpling it still further. "So now what?"

"Now, I suggest that our next alternative is to search woodlands further south, at a latitude where the ambient temperature corresponds to the weather here when we last visited." She consulted her PADD. "There is a very large area of woodland indeed further down on the continent. That should provide our best chance."

"Inhabited?" asked Malcolm warily.

"As far as I recall from the ship's scanners, hardly at all. One large city, situated on the coast. As long as we give that a wide berth and exercise due caution there is ample space for us to carry out a search undetected."

"We should wait until dusk to fly in though. Gives us the best chance of not being spotted by anyone who might be there. And use the shuttle's scanners to make sure we don't set down on top of anyone by accident." He looked across at Trip, who was staring around the open area with a strangely wistful expression on his face. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yeah. 'Kay." He walked slowly towards the rim of the forest, stopped, and glanced around. T'Pol eyed him rather apprehensively, but since he had his back to her she couldn't see how he looked now. She strongly suspected that he was trying to remember what had happened here – events that she, unfortunately, could remember extremely well.

She should have talked to him about it when he had so obviously wanted her to. She had failed him so badly, and now it was too late. Even if he asked her outright – which was unlikely given Lieutenant Reed's inhibiting presence – what would discussing it achieve? The exhaustion that the simple act of carrying a rucksack this far had caused her told her that her body was failing fast. Too late. It was all too late. She couldn't even control her emotions any more, for what invaded her heart just then was surely despair and remorse. Most Humans were light-minded in matters of partnerships; the Vulcan database had been clear on that. She had thought that Commander Tucker was one of them. Now she was beginning to suspect that she had been wrong on that score, horribly wrong. And if so, she had done him an injustice that it was beginning to seem increasingly likely she would not live long enough to correct.

After a moment he turned around. For just a second the blueness of his eyes was the only thing in her world, but there was only gentleness on his face. He would not burden her with inappropriate emotions again. Not here, not now, perhaps never again. At that moment she could have put her face in her hands and wept at the knowledge of how much she had lost.

Regret was illogical. The day was passing, and the hours of daylight were becoming fewer. They had to return to the shuttle, eat a meal, examine the maps, and plot a suitable landing area in the forest further south. That, at least, should give her mind something useful to do.

She gave the orders.

* * *

They landed the shuttle safely in an isolated clearing late that evening. The scanners had picked up nothing within range, although they passed between the city T'Pol had mentioned yesterday and a large chain of mountains that extended down the heart of the continent. Apart from the city, the few inhabited areas were confined to the coast, though bio-signs high among the mountains suggested that a number of Skaira were there. There was no saying whether Shiránnor was among them.

The forest was enormous and seemingly virtually trackless. Clear patches of ground were few and far between, and not all of them were suitable landing places. The landing party would have to do much of their searching on foot.

There seemed no reason to court danger by exploring the forest at night, so they pitched tents outside the shuttle and set up camp. Dinner was peaceful. The wind had dropped. The woods all around them were silent, but it seemed somehow a friendly silence, hardly disturbed by the occasional infinitesimal pattering of falling leaves. Close beside the shuttle a late-flowering tree bent under heavy sprays of flowers whose scent perfumed the air.

The lack of significant bio-signs persuaded them that there was no danger in making a small fire. It was comforting, as well as providing warmth while they prepared for sleep. T'Pol, however, made her excuses and retired to bed early.

"That's unusual," murmured Malcolm, as soon as they were alone.

"I know." Trip poked the fire restlessly with a stick. "And she was having real trouble carryin' her rucksack by the time we got back to the shuttle this mornin'. Did you notice? I'd have offered to carry it for her, but she'd probably have bitten my head off."

"Mm." The armory officer frowned. "Sir, do we ... is Phlox certain about the time frame? She doesn't seem like her usual self at all."

"I know as much as you do, Malcolm." He sighed heavily. "I'm just hopin' we can get hold of one of those damned things real quick tomorrow and be ready with it as soon as we hear a peep out of the ship."

"If we don't get lucky, you know – though obviously I hope we do – we can still contact the people here. I know the captain's thinking along those lines."

"I don't know what lines the cap'n's thinkin' along these days." The retort was sharper and perhaps rather more revealing than he'd intended. "In all honesty, I'm real glad he didn't come down here. That Bird of Prey was the best thing that could've happened, if you ask me."

Reed was silent for a moment. "You're still worried about him."

"Hell, yes. Oh, not – not like he's losin' his marbles or anythin'. If it came to facin' off against a bunch of Andorians or takin' a landin' party down to a new planet, I'd trust him as much as ever." A faint grin acknowledged the wry grimace of a security officer whose protests over the wisdom of a ship's captain endangering himself unnecessarily by forming one of a landing party had too often gone unheeded. "I've known him for a good while now, and I've seen him go through a few relationships. He still has an on-off thing with Erika, as far as I know."

"Erika Hernandez?" said Malcolm interestedly. "She's up for the captaincy of the _Columbia_, isn't she?"

"That's her." He stirred the fire again. "It's on when they meet and off when they part. For all I know that suits the pair of them just fine. But I've never seen Jon ... _pine_ after her. And that's what it feels like he's doin' now. Just sittin' in his quarters and pinin'." A heavy sigh. "So it seems to me the last thing he needs right now is to come down and take another hit of somethin' he'll never be able to have."

"It can't be that bad, Commander." Reed hitched his blanket closer around his shoulders; the night was becoming very cold. "He didn't turn the ship around till Sub-commander T'Pol found out she was ill. He must have been ... at least trying to fight it."

"Yeah. 'Tryin'' is the word. I didn't see much sign of 'succeedin'."' Trip stared bleakly into the flames. "When it all kicked off, he had a _reason _to come back. Thing is, he also had an _excuse._"

* * *

They began searching quite early the next day, while the thin wreaths of night mist were still lying along the ground. It was chilly, but the sky was clear and the sun would rise soon. The ground underfoot was thick with fallen leaves, though many more still clung to the trees as far as the eye could see in any direction, a masterpiece by an artist with a palette of bronze and gold.

For perhaps an hour they quartered the forest without event, working in a methodical grid pattern. There were numbers of the type of tree they wanted, but no sign of any camouflaged creature clinging to any of them. Then suddenly T'Pol stopped, lifting a warning hand. "There are a number of bio-signs nearby. Too large for what we are looking for." She was consulting her scanner. "But they are very faint."

"Sick? Dyin'?" asked Trip sharply. The connection in his mind was obvious: they could have found other victims of the same parasitic predator. And if so, that meant the culprit might not be far away.

"It would not appear so. Although the readings are so strange that I cannot be sure."

"Well, let's go check it out. But be real careful. We already know this place can spring nasty surprises."

They followed the direction that the Vulcan indicated. She came to the edge of an area that seemed a little more open than the rest of the forest, and halted. The trees here were widely spaced and of a variety whose thin, whippy branches sprang from the top of the trunk and cascaded down almost to ground level. Although they too had shed many of their leaves, the weeping boughs had a strange appearance in many places, as though some kind of fabric had been woven among them. Close to, however, this was found to be not fabric but leaves of another type, long and stringy, pierced and connected with infinite patience originally but now falling into decay so that even a light wind would break them apart and strip the boughs naked. It appeared that during the summer the weaving would have covered the whole tree, forming a kind of not-very-waterproof tipi. It was hard to come to any other conclusion but that each of the trees had been turned into some kind of airy and murmurous dwelling-place.

"The bio-signs are in that area." She pointed to the roots of the largest of the trees, which had a wide grassy space at its foot. "They are at least partly humanoid and would appear to be underground." Obviously there were no hyrellanium deposits in this area, or the scanner would not have picked up the information.

"Buried?" exclaimed Trip in horror.

"'Partly humanoid'?" asked Malcolm almost in the same instant, going as usual for the worst case scenario and thinking that they'd stumbled across a whole den full of lion-women, who could represent a very great deal of trouble if they were so inclined.

"If my interpretation of the data is correct, I would imagine rather that these people are _hibernating._ They are in an underground chamber which would be suitable for that purpose. They are completely different from either of the species we encountered on our last visit. Some of the readings are unlike anything I have ever seen before."

"Different in what way?" asked the tactical officer suspiciously.

"I would prefer not to speculate until we can examine them more closely."

"Examining them might wake them up. How dangerous would they be if we did?" Ever single-minded to the point of paranoia where security issues were concerned, he refused to be diverted from the issue that was really important as far as he was concerned. This landing party wasn't going to come to grief for want of his efforts to instill a little proper caution into its members.

"The readings suggest that they are in a far deeper sleep than anything that Humans – or Vulcans for that matter – ever experience naturally. If we take due care, it is highly unlikely that any of them will wake."

"I don't see the point of examining them, anyway. That's not what we're here for." Trip spoke up stubbornly. He could be even more single-minded than the lieutenant when he had reason to be, and right now he had the best of all possible reasons. His gaze roamed among the tree trunks around him, obviously still searching for any of the ones that had cloudy grey splotches on its off-white bark.

"We set out on a mission of exploration, Commander. While we are here, I suggest we fulfill that mission. It will take only a few moments, and then we can pursue our search for the tree-creature." She didn't actually say so, but the 'suggestion' wasn't really couched as such. She was the ranking officer present, and if she said 'explore' then it was an order.

Trip glowered, but said no more. If he hadn't had such an excellent reason for impatience, Reed thought with some sympathy, he'd have been as excited as a boy by this opportunity; he was always eager to be in the forefront of new discoveries. This was what he'd signed on for, after all. However, in view of the fact that exploration _was _their primary mission, and that the people hibernating here were not going to kill them or kidnap them or exhibit any other unfriendly inclinations, and that T'Pol herself thought it too good a chance to miss, he supposed even Trip would concede that it was pretty unreasonable to pass up the chance of a very fleeting glimpse of members of the third species which shared Kerriel's civilization, especially since there was no chance of contaminating their cultural development. A few moments' searching uncovered the fretwork of branches that acted as a cover to the entrance tunnel to the underground chamber; it had been secured in place with a couple of large stones, easily placed and moved through narrow gaps left in the right places. Interlaced leaves filled the chinks, keeping out the worst of the rain and frost. There had been no particular effort put into hiding the entrance; it seemed that the sleepers had no reason to fear being disturbed.

Taking care to note where the stones had been placed so that they could be put back exactly as they had been left, Trip and Malcolm freed the cover and removed it cautiously. The dark hole beneath was not inviting. It looked as if it was very old; the sides were solid packed earth, sloping away at about a forty-degree angle. It was wide enough for a Human to slide down without effort, even without having to lie completely flat, if not to turn around in very easily. There was no smell from below, nor any sound.

"This is where a flashlight would come in handy." The engineer peered into the gloom.

"Eagle scouts always come prepared." With something of a smug expression Malcolm produced a slender torch from one of his uniform pockets.

"The room is approximately four meters down," said T'Pol, studying the readout. "It should be possible to avoid touching the occupants if we are careful."

"I'll go first." Armed with the torch, the armoury officer lowered himself into the tunnel, which the beam showed bent left to take it directly under the sentinel tree. He would have preferred to have his phase pistol in his other hand, but it seemed wiser to control his descent with his free arm; the slope was quite steep, and smooth from the passage of many bodies over the years. He had no wish to announce his arrival by colliding with a sleeping alien who might not be quite as hard to rouse as the scanner seemed to indicate.

He scuffled his way down into the dimness. The tunnel was laced with exploring tree rootlets that touched him inquisitively. Every meter or so he stopped to listen, but there was no sound except his own slightly accelerated breathing.

After negotiating the bend he shone the torch down into the chamber, which was now visible. It appeared to be half-full of leaves. He tried not to think about how many rodents or insects might have taken up residence in that lot. This would be a haven for insects to over-winter in. Doubtless the scanner would pick up anything of any size, but the prospect of having disturbed creepy-crawlies investigating his trousers for alternative winter quarters wasn't appealing to him; this wouldn't be a good moment to discover another allergy to add to his already depressing collection.

He reached the bottom of the tunnel and thrust his feet cautiously into the layer of leaves. They came up to just under knee height, and feeling the floor secure beneath his boots he stood up and swung the torchlight to and fro.

It illuminated a surreal scene. If he had not heard the science officer's analysis he would have believed that he was in a burial chamber. Seven adults and what appeared to be a child were lying close together, half-buried in the leaf litter, curled up in a fetal position. They were each wrapped in plain woolen cloth but apart from that had no covering. The wraps of one or two permitted a glimpse of a narrow, pallid face, eyes tightly closed. In each case the right hand was resting against the cheek or mouth, but the left was thrust out of the wrapping and touching one of the huge roots of the tree that he now saw formed the ceiling of the chamber. Looking more closely, he realised that the slender fingertips weren't just touching the root: each of them was _fused_ to it. "Bloody hell," he breathed.

The two other members of the landing party followed him down. All three of them walked carefully around the sleepers, marveling.

"This would go some way towards explaining the readouts," observed T'Pol, crouching to study with care the way the fingers were joined to the root. "These people appear to have a symbiotic relationship with this tree. A large quantity of their blood has been drawn into it. Possibly this is how they can survive such low temperatures without freezing."

"They can exchange blood with a tree?" exclaimed Trip.

"Many species of fungi depend on such a relationship. In their case it is termed 'mycorrhizal mutualistic symbiosis'. Though this is the first example I have seen of such an advanced life-form forming such a relationship. It is fascinating. I am sure that Dr Phlox would wish to see this for himself, if it was possible."

"But surely they're just too different…." He hunkered down and stared at one of the sleepers. "They must be … _intelligent beings._ I just can't imagine what…."

"I could not be sure without taking a sample, but it would appear that their vital fluid is closer to 'sap' than what we would call 'blood'. Obviously it would need to be considerably more complex than that, but certainly some of the components are the same."

"But you won't be taking a sample."

"I could not guarantee that doing so while they are in this state would not harm them. I would imagine that it has evolved over millions of years, and we have no means of establishing what their physical tolerances are."

"Commander." Malcolm was bending over one lying at a slight distance from the others for some reason, almost completely buried under the leaves where the stray draughts had heaped them deeper. "There's another of them here. But I don't think…."

This one was wrapped in the same way and lying in just the same attitude; the only difference was that the left hand lay at a little distance from the nearest root, as though it had slipped from it in sleep. The right hand held a small number of articles close to the unmoving chest: globular wizened things that gave off the faintly sickly smell of decaying fruit. The sleeper had taken food for his last journey.

The discovery presented another whole range of questions, these about what these people believed and how they lived and died. It was utterly exasperating to think that none of them were ever likely to be answered. The only benefit was that this individual, at least, would not be harmed by having a tissue sample taken (his blood would have congealed), except insofar as such a procedure could be viewed as disrespectful. There was no way of knowing how such an action would be regarded by these people.

A short discussion ended with the agreement that a tissue sample should be taken if it could be done with extreme discretion. With that end in view, Malcolm and Trip began gently unwrapping the body. It felt uncannily light in their hands: the creature's bones must be very thin indeed. It was lax and unresisting. When they finished removing the sheet, the body was revealed for the first time. It was, indeed, amazingly slightly built. The average human male would virtually have made two of it. He (they thought it was male, but removing the plain white tunic still remaining seemed too much of an intrusion) would have stood about a meter and a half tall on what came as the greatest shock of all – legs that were not humanoid, but shaped like the hind legs of a deer or a goat. Cloven hooves completed the picture. A dead faun lay on the leaves, the withered fruit still clasped in his hand, which was now seen to be supported in place by something like a sling. The face was very narrow, its silver-grey hair drawn back and clasped at the nape of the neck with a withy tie. He seemed to have died in his sleep, for his expression was utterly serene.

The very small tissue sample was quickly and gently taken from just underneath the joint that would have corresponded to the heel of a human foot. Then they wrapped the body up again, taking every care to handle it reverently and replicate exactly how it had been laid when they had finished.

"Weird." Trip stood looking around at the silent figures. "Just weird."

"Doubtless our way of life would seem equally 'weird' to them." T'Pol replaced the scanner on her belt clip. "I believe we have spent enough time here. We should go."

"Oh, I can live with that." He shivered a little. "C'mon. Let's get up back up there and get searchin'."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Look! Over there!" Trip's excited voice broke the forest hush as he pointed across the watercourse. "A whole stand of those trees we're lookin' for!"

"It certainly is!" Hope surging in him wildly after a weary and unproductive morning, Malcolm snatched out his binoculars. He focused them, running a stare that was as desperate as it was intent up and down the mottled trunks while T'Pol fumbled uncharacteristically with the scanner settings. Nothing – nothing – _dear God, not another blank, just how rare are these blasted animals? – _

_Something there had moved. _He snapped the focus back. Something incredibly well camouflaged, but that tiny movement had given it away. "YES!"

"There's one there?" Trip stepped up beside him and stared eagerly across at the clump of trees, shading his eyes with his hand against the flickering sunlight through the bronze leaves.

"Yes. I've got my eye right on it. And it's not bloody getting away." He handed over the binoculars and unslung the rifle. He'd already modified it for the job, and at this distance it would be more accurate than a pistol. "Before I use this thing, just check one more time that there's nobody about, will you?" The weapon wouldn't make any significant amount of noise, but the bright beam in the quiet dim wood would be startlingly noticeable. Without shifting his fixed gaze from the spot on the distant tree trunk where his quarry clung, he dropped flat to his stomach and leveled the rifle, using the ground like any sniper to help steady his aim as he stared down the telescopic sight. "Don't move, you little bastard ... just stay still for another couple of seconds..."

The slender beam lanced across the river, and to the watchers it seemed as though a small piece of bark detached itself from the tree trunk and plopped liquidly into the greenery at its foot.

"'Great shot, Loo-tenant!" The chief engineer thumped a fist into his palm. "Now let's get that thing and get out of here!"

"Yes. Let's just hope that nothing over there reaches it before we do and decides it's a nice free lunch." He scrambled to his feet. "And if it _does_ happen to be still there when we get over there, _do_ please remember that these things bite."

"Malcolm, does anything nice _ever_ happen in your world?" He began to negotiate a safe path down to the riverside, offering a steadying arm to the science officer, who had watched all this in silence (and, worryingly, took it without protest).

_Not when there's water involved._ Reed stared grimly at that width of river. The difficulty they'd experienced in finding one of the parasites to start with weighed heavily against their chances of finding another with any ease, if at all. If that hadn't been the case he might even have been shamefully tempted to ignore the find in hope of getting lucky on this side of the watercourse. As it was, they had little choice. With Phlox's advice he'd made a calculated guess on what amount of energy the rifle would have to emit in order to down and stun a creature of the size T'Pol had described – they didn't want to kill it outright, but on the other hand he certainly didn't want it biting anyone else. Quite how long that stun would hold, he wasn't sure. They had to cross the river, and without any loss of time. That inescapable necessity took no account of the fact that, unbeknownst to either of his companions, he had since childhood suffered from aquaphobia – the terror of drowning. Some while ago, in a moment of what he'd later come to perceive as unforgivable weakness, he'd confided that fact to Captain Archer, but being heartily ashamed of it, he had never told anyone else. Nor did he intend to now.

He put the safety catch back on and shouldered the rifle again. As he began reluctantly picking his way in the wake of his two senior officers, he was conscious of the dull anxiety that had lain in the pit of his stomach ever since they'd arrived at the riverside beginning to curdle into something far less possible to ignore. Luckily, they had come at the end of the summer. The main body of water had shrunk to the center of a bed that testified to a far greater volume during other parts of the year. Nevertheless it was still a sizeable obstacle, tumbling and swirling over and around a wasteland of broken boulders. Crossing it was going to present a considerably greater problem than they had encountered with the previous one, which by comparison had been hardly more than a wide stream.

"We should rope ourselves together," he said curtly, arriving at the grassy apron that edged it. He was the security officer, damn it. He was bloody well going to make sure they stayed secure. And perhaps being roped to two other people would enable him to cope somehow with the fear that was slowly starting to choke him.

Perhaps.

Trip looked at him, evidently with some riposte on his tongue, but perhaps those blue eyes were as observant as ever; he said nothing after all, but dropped his rucksack on to the grass and began rummaging in it for the length of cord. "Sure you'll be all right, Sub-commander? We'll take it real careful."

Malcolm smiled wryly. Trip could be as subtle as he was clever. Just occasionally.

For the first ten meters or so all was well. There were stray rivulets of water threaded between the stones, but nothing more than ankle deep. After that, however, they came to the first of the three deeper-cut channels in the middle, which probably never dried up except in times of really severe drought. Even this wasn't so deep that anyone would be forced to swim it: the depth was hardly above a meter and a half at its very greatest. The problem wasn't the depth, but the force. Constrained into narrow channels between huge boulders that must have been carried down or rolled along at some past time by a weight of water that hardly bore thinking of, the shrunken river still poured through with vicious strength.

"We can manage this." Trip stood knee-deep on a lip of stone at the edge of the channel, bracing himself against the side of the first of the great masses of rock. "Get yourselves somewhere you can hold on to if I slip, and don't move till I'm across and I tell you to. We'll take it real slow and easy."

"That would be wise, Commander." T'Pol's eyes were fixed on the gap they had to cross. It wasn't that wide: a few meters perhaps, and one in depth if the shifting light on the rocks under the glassy sheen of fast-sliding water was to be trusted. Nevertheless, her people were desert-dwellers, having evolved on a planet which boasted no such expanses of water. She had learned to swim because that was a requirement at the Vulcan Academy, but it was doubtful whether she, or indeed any other Vulcan, ever regarded water as a friend the way Florida-born Trip did, with his passion for surfing. She was already under siege from the toxin in her body, which had so sapped her that this morning she'd had to allow Trip to carry her rucksack. Normally she would have carried such a load rather more easily than they would have done, but she seemed to be finding it enough of a struggle just to keep up with a pace that was becoming slower and slower as they tried to accommodate her need for rest. If landing places had been in better supply it was a fair bet that Trip would have overruled any protests she might have made and used the shuttle to take them in short hops; certainly this river crossing was going to be extremely taxing of her strength, but the forest on the far bank was extremely dense and offered no opportunity whatsoever for a landing. Malcolm watched her rigid face as Trip stretched out a foot and began carefully searching for the first secure hold. He noticed for the first time that her skin looked a little blotchy around the neck of her cat-suit, and realized that her pallor was betraying where the cosmetic cream that normally matched her skin color perfectly lay over the bruises that the captain had mentioned. "He'll be all right, Sub-commander," he said gently. "They say the Devil looks after his own."

"In these circumstances I find it difficult to place any reliance on the intervention of a mythical entity who supposedly embodies evil," she replied tartly. "In the unlikely event that such a person exists, I fail to see any reason why he should feel any interest in preventing a Starfleet officer from death by drowning."

_I wish._ The thought was as dry as his mouth.

Trip had got his secure foothold by this time. Pausing only to check that the rope around his chest was knotted securely, he stepped forward and down into the deep water, bracing himself against the rush. "Damn, it's cold!" he gasped. "You should feel right at home in this, Malcolm. Feels just like somethin' coming straight down off Snowdon or somewhere like that."

_If it was coming down off Snowdon there'd be a bloody bridge and I'd be crossing by it,_ thought Reed bitterly. Aloud he said only, "Take your time. Don't rush it just because you're getting your..." he remembered the company just in time and amended hastily, "feet frozen off."

Tucker glanced back at him and grinned. "I guess my _feet _can stand it for a while longer." Cautiously he put his weight on the leg that seemed most secure and began negotiations for a second step that would get him across the worst of the gap. This too was accomplished without incident, though the water was deeper and it came well up to his waist; he was having to lean hard into it. A few seconds later his colleagues watched him climb out of the channel on to what amounted to an island, the wet streaming off him. He found a niche there that would allow him to brace himself securely, then turned around, wedged himself in and nodded to them. T'Pol was next in line. Because she was so much shorter than he, the water would be much deeper on her. Even if she'd been fully fit it would have been a challenge. Now it was going to be an ordeal, and one she'd have to repeat twice more before they were across. For the return journey they'd be able to take their time about picking somewhere a lot easier, but they couldn't afford the risk that their quarry might yet recover consciousness and make its escape.

Respect for a senior officer didn't quite seem to have its usual force in circumstances like these. As the petite Vulcan began her own search for the foothold Trip had used – he'd deliberately sought out one that would be within her range, and was now leaning over softly calling guidance and encouragement to her – Malcolm grasped the free hand that lay splayed on the rock. He wondered if it was the heat of his own admittedly sweaty palm that made it feel so cold by comparison. She'd probably put him on report for contaminating her with his bodily fluids when they got back to the ship, but at that moment the little hand just looked so lost that he was willing to risk it. And if her smallness and toxin-induced frailty affected him like this, God alone knew what Trip felt when he looked at her.

Still, contamination or not, she didn't seem to mind. He braced himself spread-legged against the rock and paid out the slack in the rope carefully as she got herself into the centre of the flow. The water was so much further up her body than it had been on Trip's, and would hit her so much harder now that she'd lost so much of her strength...

In the next moment Trip yelled out in warning. A huge, half-submerged piece of driftwood was being carried towards them, bobbing innocuously on the sun-flecked surface and gathering speed with every second. Travelling with smooth, hideous speed, it came out of the tunnel of flickering tree-shadows upstream that had hidden it until almost the last minute; it was going to be forced into their channel and it would smash directly into T'Pol, roped between the two men and completely unable to dodge it.

There was no time to unfasten the rope and even less to cut it. Out of the two of them, Trip was better positioned and physically better able to withstand the strain of two bodies on a rope.

Before he could think better of it, Malcolm threw himself into the channel and on to T'Pol, wrapping his arms tightly around her in the effort to interpose his body between her and the oncoming driftwood. It was an action that (like pretty well every man on board ship) he'd occasionally fantasized about, but this certainly wasn't the setting he'd envisaged it happening in. His weight crashed into her, knocking her off her feet; the water immediately picked both of them up and hurled them downstream just as the piece of driftwood surged into the channel.

* * *

The driftwood appeared to be part of an old rotten tree from upriver. It was moving fast, and rolling as it came.

Perhaps it was just bad luck that brought the side with several quite solid and hefty branches still attached up into the sunlight just at that moment. Trip, understanding quite well what Malcolm had intended, had dug into his niche and prepared to resist with all his strength when the rope went taut. In theory, the two on the other end of it should be swung to the side of the current and hopefully out of the path of the driftwood; when it was safely past they could work on finding a way back to him. He saw the branches too late to do anything, if indeed there had been anything he could have done. They smashed into his island, dragging across it like enormous claws, ripping him bodily out of his refuge. Between their brute force and the sudden crash of weight on the rope around his chest, he stood no chance. The water swallowed him; there was nothing in his world but the fight to get to the surface and the next breath of air before the tree rolled over and took him down again like some gigantic nightmare lover with a dozen clutching arms. He was a strong and confident swimmer, but this was something else entirely. Panic endowed the tree with a personality and a will, and both were malevolent beyond belief.

It felt like weeks, but in reality was probably only a matter of five minutes or so, before the river's separate courses converged again and the flow once more became deep and smooth, so that the tree stopped rolling so violently and he was finally able to stop fighting it and just float for a moment to catch his breath and take stock of his situation with something approaching calm. They were still being swept along by the current, so he had to strike out and swim with it as hard as he could to catch up with the others. At least they were still attached – the rope told him that – and they must be only a few meters away at most; to save cutting the cord, each of them had wound several loops of it around their bodies. He wasn't going to have any problem finding them. Hell, he would have been able to see them easily if the tree canopy overhead wasn't so dense, with the lances of sunlight darting blindingly through here and there to jab into his dazzled wet eyes.

Then the river ran over a cluster of submerged boulders and one of the branches snagged. The tree rolled again, lazily, a killer whale sunning itself, and up on one of the branches, hung there like some incongruous sodden Christmas tree ornament, came T'Pol. She looked to be unconscious, or worse. Seconds later the rope attached to her ran tight, and a slight body in Starfleet blue rose slowly to the surface just beyond her. Face down. Motionless.

Trip fought down the panic that threatened momentarily to overwhelm him. Panicking wouldn't save anyone, wouldn't help anyone; hell, he'd been trained not to panic. _Just imagine you're back in Engineering. Set your priorities and do what needs doin' first._

He cast one agonized glance at T'Pol. Bottom line was, dead or alive she had air available. Something Malcolm didn't have, assuming his lungs weren't already flooded and he was past needing it ever again.

The surge of adrenaline triggered strength that he wouldn't have thought he still had in him after the past few minutes. He powered the short distance that separated him from the still body of his tactical officer at a speed that an Olympic sprint swimmer would have envied. Coming to a churning halt beside him, he dragged the man's head and shoulders upright. Immediately blood coursed down the side of Malcolm's face from a deep cut in the scalp under the saturated dark hair, but Trip's fingers gripping under the line of his jaw found a pulse, plunging and erratic, but still there.

_Airway, breathing, circulation._ He'd done his CPR training, but this was hardly the ideal place to do it. He had to get him to the bank for that. Still, it was important to get a couple of breaths into the lungs as soon as possible. With extreme difficulty, given that they were both still being borne along by the current, Trip began dragging the unconscious lieutenant towards the nearest supporting surface, which was the tree trunk. At least that would give him something to lean Malcolm against while he got air into him to start with.

He reached it and thrust his friend back against it. It was far from perfect, but it was better than nothing. The dark head lolled, and he pushed it upright with a curse that damned all uncooperative Brits. He pinched Malcolm's nose shut, took a deep breath, clamped his mouth over Reed's and exhaled until the world swam in front of him, feeling the motionless ribs inflate. _Let go, let him breathe out._ He removed his mouth, tasting the metallic bite of blood in it; red was still pouring from the cut, but he knew that scalp cuts bled far out of proportion to the severity of the wound. As the air sighed out, Malcolm's eyes flickered. Encouraged, Trip shook him. _"Malcolm!" _He could hardly have yelled louder if he'd been warning about an imminent core breach. He pushed forward to do a second breath, but at that moment the lieutenant regained consciousness. The grey eyes flashed wide open and took in the situation. Trip heard a great gasping intake of air, followed instantaneously by the overwhelming impression that he was in the grip of something made of steel, muscle and blind terror. They both went under, and Malcolm's struggles grew even more frantic; the floating loops of cord began to coil around their flailing legs, and Trip had drawn back his fist to give his junior officer a punch in the head to stop him struggling before they both drowned, when suddenly he felt hands grabbing at him, lifting them both up. His head broke the surface again; he'd never been so grateful to see the sunlight.

Then, as between the dazzle of sunshine and the water in his face his sight cleared, he realized with absolute horror that rescue might actually be worse than the fate they'd been saved from. The hands handling him and Malcolm were hard and clawed, the heads of the people around him those of huge birds of prey. "No!" he gasped. Not again. Not with Malcolm too, another victim for their amusement – and T'Pol, he didn't dare think what they'd do to her. He struck out wildly, trying to get away, back to protect her at any cost, hauling Malcolm with him by the back of his collar, but there were too many of them, they were surrounded, and anyway there wasn't any point anymore because he saw now that another two of the bird-men were lifting her down from the branch, touching her with their ugly, hard, careless hands: _"Leave her alone!"_ he screamed, but nobody was listening, and he was thrashing and punching and swallowing water and struggling and kicking, and a still-frenzied Malcolm was being secured with ropes and they were trying to do the same with him, except that he couldn't see T'Pol anymore and he didn't care about anything else, he had to reach her and...

And then something hit the side of his head, and the world went out.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

When Trip opened his eyes again everything was incongruously peaceful. For a moment he wondered why this should bother him so much, and then memory came back to him in a series of jagged, blazing flashes.

He sat up sharply, and then it dawned on him that although he had a splintering headache that felt as though he had an axe buried in the top of his skull, he _could_ sit up. He wasn't tied, as he'd been before. True, he was on a bed in a tent and his clothes had been removed. But the bedding and the furnishings in this tent were in stark contrast to the smothering opulence of the previous one; there was no stench of perfume, no heaps of furs and piles of gorgeous fabrics thrown anyhow. This place was tidy to the point of austerity, its only ornament a single stone jug in which a fantastically twisted branch stood upright. The blankets were plain woven stuff, undyed; there was a single clothes chest of light wood in one corner and a brazier in which pieces of sweet-smelling wood smoldered gently in another. The quality of the light through the canvas suggested that it was mid-morning outside. He must have slept right through since the previous afternoon.

But most importantly of all, there were two other camp beds in the tent, too. The one on his right had Malcolm on it, the one on his left bore T'Pol. Both were apparently fast asleep, just as he had been. Reed's head had been bandaged, and he looked as though he was dreaming or close to waking: his eyelids twitched, and he muttered something, slurring the words too badly for them to be decipherable. T'Pol's torso was supported slightly by extra pillows for some reason, carefully packed around her to discourage movement, though her soft breathing didn't suggest this was in response to any immediate medical problem. All three of the captives had been undressed. The blankets that covered her up to just below her collar bones revealed something of the extent of the bruising that the cream no longer fully disguised. Trip saw it with deep concern. Hell, if it was as bad internally as it was externally they'd better get it taken care of pretty damned quick.

His next thought was naturally of escape. There was nobody in the tent with them, so their captors must be confident of their inability or unwillingness to give any trouble. His rapidly assessing gaze found that beside each of their beds was a heap of folded fabric that proved to be their jackets and uniforms – clean and dry (ironed was perhaps asking a bit much), with, to his sickening relief, their phase pistols, communicators and UTs laid carefully on top. Even their boots had been dried and returned. Over to one side of the tent as much of their baggage as had survived the excitement in the river had been laid in a neat pile. Even the phase rifle was there – that would cheer Malcolm up. Whatever the motives behind their capture might be (and he personally had no intention of hanging around to find out what they were if he could avoid it), it seemed that theft was not among them. He wasn't going to imagine that kindness was either, though. His previous experiences had taught him that these people never gave anything for nothing.

He had the blankets lifted to throw back when the tent flap lifted. Instantly recoiling into defensiveness and suspicion, he put a hand towards his phase pistol. It was within reach if he needed it, and hell, if it was a choice between letting the three of them be abused and murdered or contaminating a pre-warp culture by giving them a demonstration of what a phase pistol could achieve, then sorry, as far as he was concerned that was no choice at all.

But only one man entered, and by the way he stopped immediately and lifted his hands in what appeared to be an effort to appear non-threatening, he wasn't in the abusing and murdering business. He was quite small and slender by bird-people standards, making him only a couple of centimeters taller than Trip and of a comparable build, and although he had the same feathered head as the rest of his species it was noticeably less aggressive in the beak department than most of those Trip had encountered so far. That and his wide yellow eyes were irresistibly reminiscent of a startled owl. Clad in a mid-length tunic of the same plain undyed stuff as the blankets, tied in at the waist by a belt of the same plaited leather as his sandals, he seemed to be unarmed. He certainly wasn't wearing armor like all the others had been.

Now he was speaking. The voice was more melodious than would have been expected, with a cooing note in it that might have been intended to reinforce the attempt at reassurance.

Well, okay. It seemed that conversation was required. At least this man seemed to be trying to talk _to_ him. The other ones had only talked _about_ him as though he was some kind of captive animal, for all his attempts to set up some method of communication that would let them know he was an intelligent, sentient being. Moving slowly to avoid appearing aggressive in his turn, Trip picked up the phase pistol and the UT. These people evidently didn't know what pistols were for or it would never have been left with him, but the translator's function was less obvious.

Leaving the weapon by his hip (though not before clicking it open briefly just to check that the power cell had survived its immersion in water, which thankfully it had), he switched on the UT. This, too, was supposedly waterproof, and at first it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to come to life; but presently its power indicators flickered and the readout came on. It was, of course, set to the language that Shiránnor had used. T'Pol's report on her rescue of him from the camp had indicated that this was spoken by the bird-people as well, so he could at least get some kind of dialogue going. Not being by nature inclined towards the diplomatic end of encountering new species – he preferred to leave that to Jon, who'd had the training for it – he was a bit uncertain how to get started.

"I guess I have to thank you for fishin' me and my friends out of the river and patchin' us up," he said hesitantly. "My name's Tucker. Charles Tucker."

"It was my duty." The man gave a quaint little bow, and the feathers around the base of his beak moved in what looked like a smile. "And my pleasure, of course. I think your male friend will wake very soon. Your female friend ... well, I have hope."

"She's sick." Trip turned and looked at her with intense concern. "We're … explorers, we come from another world." He glanced apprehensively at the bird-man, but received no more than a blink of interested encouragement. "We came here a few weeks ago, and there was an animal ... hanging on a tree trunk. It bit her. We got the egg out, but she's gettin' sicker. Our doctor thinks she's gonna die if we can't find a cure. That's why we came back ... to try to get one of those animals so that he can get a look at it and see if he can find out about the poison."

"Yes. I thought perhaps that was what ailed her. This bruising is always a symptom of _ihaile_ poisoning." He walked quickly to T'Pol's side and touched her neck gently; Trip bristled, but the clawed talons seemed to convey care.

"Can you ... do your people know how to treat it? Is there a cure?" he asked desperately.

The pause while the other man studied the sleeping Vulcan seemed to go on forever. "Ordinarily, yes, it can be treated. But so late in the season, we may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" The demand was understandably urgent.

"The problem that the people who would ordinarily treat it are all hibernating by now." The yellow eyes were bleak. "They go into their sleeping caves just as the _ihailei_ start to find themselves over-wintering dens. It's the tree dependency, you see."

"I don't see. Are you saying that those people ... we found some asleep underground, a while north of here, little people with furry legs ... _they_ can cure this?"

"Certainly. When they're awake, that is. And they won't be now, with the winter coming on. They couldn't survive it." He hesitated. "They call themselves the _Manyei_, the People of the Trees. They actually believe they're _related_ to trees. That's why they have some ... affinity with tree-creatures like the _ihaile_. Ordinarily when someone is bitten, a _Manyé_ in the area will, I don't know exactly how it works, but somehow – connect the victim to the tree the _ihailei_ live on, and the poison is drawn out. It's so rare, I've never seen it done, and I don't know anyone who has. People know to avoid that particular tree, especially late in the year." He shrugged and blinked sorrowfully.

"But there would be more of these – tree people – in other countries? Further south? Where it's not winter?"

"Well, of course. But you could never get her there in time. And even if you could, they probably wouldn't have that kind of tree there."

The first wouldn't be a problem; the shuttle could get them anywhere on the planet in a matter of minutes. The second, however, could well be insuperable. "Are you a doctor?" asked Trip abruptly. Apart from the lack of the ear-to-ear smile, the resemblance between this man's manner and that of Dr Phlox was marked.

"Well – in a very junior way, of course. I'm studying hard. That's why I'm here – Lathaichan Mahé'lanné has allowed me to accompany him to take up my next post, as an assistant with his army surgeons. Incidentally," he added, "it was Lathaichan Mahé'lanné who you have to thank for your rescue. I believe he's quite ... impatient to have words with you. Impatient in his own way, of course. Purely out of curiosity. He's quite willing to wait until you're recovered." He had moved around to check on Malcolm now, listening carefully to his breathing.

"That's mighty kind of him." Trip paused. "Any idea what he ... plans to do with us?"

"_Do_ with you?" There was no mistaking the puzzlement, and it sounded genuine.

"Well. Maybe 'do _to_ us' was more what I was thinkin'."

The head and face opposite rotated anti-clockwise on the flexible neck exactly like that of a puzzled owl. The yellow eyes widened even further. "You do understand that he's the First Warlord? Second only to Emperor Vede'hanax himself? He wouldn't do anything 'to' anyone that they didn't deserve."

_Just great. Of all the people we could have bumped into, we get the big boss's XO. Talk about blowing our cover. _

"So he's not going to be – surprised by havin' three people from another world turn up here? Like this is somethin' that's happened before?"

"Oh no, I don't remember hearing that it's ever happened before. But we know there are other worlds than ours; why shouldn't there be other people? I'm sure he'll be curious. But if you are here, it must be with the will of the Gods; we have to accept it. You're our guests. The laws of hospitality are very strict."

At that moment there was a gasp from the bed on his right, and Malcolm woke with a convulsive movement. He'd been sleeping on his left side, so he was unaware of the doctor standing behind him; though perhaps it was the feeling of being under observation that had finally awakened him.

"Steady, Lieutenant." Trip spoke soothingly, but used the rank without its playful drawl to warn his junior officer to be careful. A speaking glance directed attention to the fact that they had company.

The grey eyes blinked at him in bewilderment, then turned, widening, to the person who was standing silently so close behind him. Instantly the tactical officer drew into himself like a coiling cobra. It was naturally the first time he'd actually seen one of the bird-people up close, and at this proximity even a relatively small one like this was pretty intimidating. "Commander...!"

"It's okay, Lieutenant. This guy patched us up after they fished us out of the river. He's not goin' to hurt you."

"Certainly not!" Even Phlox couldn't have sounded more shocked and offended. "I'd like to examine your head wound, if you'd allow it, er..."

Memory prodded Trip of something Shiránnor had said. "He's a warlord too," he said. "Warlord Reed."

From the lieutenant's expression as he stared at him, he was obviously wondering who'd sustained the head injury. _'Warlord Reed?'_ he mouthed in silent, incredulous British disgust.

The information had a quite unexpected effect on their physician. He stepped back a little and bowed slightly, placing his left hand on his right breast in what was unmistakably a gesture of respect. "My name is Atio'annan. I am a Healer of four years' training. Your pardon for touching you without permission, Lathaichan Reed."

"Don't mention it, I'm sure." However disconcerted he might be, his manners never deserted him.

In different circumstances Trip would have laughed aloud at the dazed look on Malcolm's face. The tactical officer had ended up in Sickbay often enough, but it was singularly unlikely that Phlox had ever apologized for treating him without permission while he was unconscious; that was the only time that the Denobulan could ever count on his full co-operation, since the speed and determination with which Malcolm would usually extricate himself from the place once awake would rival Lucifer escaping from a baptismal font.

"With your permission, lord, I will check your head wound now." His tone was definitely several shades more respectful, and he waited for his patient's cautious nod before stepping forward again and unpinning the bandage. This had held a thick pad of clean linen against the site of the cut in the right side of the scalp. Craning forward apprehensively, Trip saw that some blood had oozed through and dried, but not much. Reassured on that score, he found a smile playing at his mouth. 'With your permission, lord'. Oh, if they ever got out of this OK, he would _never_ let Malcolm live this down.And to judge by the embittered glance sideways as the officer submitted to the treatment, he was well aware of his impending doom.

Atio'annan produced another square of linen from a pouch hanging at his belt, smeared it with ointment from a small vial, and carefully replaced the original one with it before re-winding the bandage and securing it in place. "Another day, I think, lord, and then we will leave it off."

Reed looked across at T'Pol, still soundly sleeping. "Has she woken at all?" he asked in a low voice.

"We should not look for it, lord," the Healer answered. "While she sleeps the poison will act more slowly. Now I will bring you both something to eat and drink. You should both try to rest for a little longer." And with another respectful bow he bustled out of the tent.

_"Don't say a single word, sir,"_ said Malcolm through gritted teeth as soon as they were alone. "What the f... what the bloody hell did you tell him I'm a warlord for?"

"How'm I supposed to explain if I'm not supposed to say a word?" complained Trip, injured, although a grin of almost Denobulan proportions had broken out on his face at his friend's crimson discomfiture. "Don't blame me, Malcolm. It was what Shiránnor called you, the last time."

"She never even bloody met me!" exploded the lieutenant.

"_I_ know that. But she knew about you, okay? She told the cap'n you were gettin' worried about us."

"I never heard about that!" Far from looking inclined to rest, he was sitting bolt upright with an outraged expression on his face. "What _else_ did this ... person see fit to tell the captain about me that he didn't already know?"

"Well, apart from the explicit details of your love life..." Seeing his friend pick up a pillow and raise it in a distinctly menacing manner, he capitulated, laughing. "No, there wasn't anythin' else. Just that. Nothin' to worry about."

"Bad enough, anyway," muttered Reed. "It comes to something when I can't even worry in private up on the ship without having some alien telling tales on me to the captain."

"She was just worried about you." The smile died, and he looked back at the occupant of the third bed, heaving a sigh. "And the news about T'Pol isn't too good either."

"He told you something?" He replaced the pillow and sat forward anxiously.

"Enough." Briefly Trip outlined the facts of what he had learned so far, adding the information about the person in charge of the camp, who had yet to put in an appearance. "So there is a cure, but ... we may be too late to get hold of it." The last words were spoken through a constriction in his throat, a fact that the other man evidently didn't fail to notice.

"It's too early to say that. Don't give up yet, Trip, it's not like you. _I'm_ the Grim Reaper around here, remember." Reed's smile was a little twisted.

"I don't do 'givin' up' where she's concerned." At that moment he didn't care whether the double truth in the words was evident. "They have other doctors. Maybe one of them can help her. When we get to talk to this Mahé'lanné guy I'm going to ask him. Shiránnor told us the Emperor controls the whole planet, so his XO must have some power. If the doc's anything to go by, then these people seem decent enough; he might be willing to help. I don't know, but if worse comes to worse maybe Phlox could wake one of those tree-people up. Denobulans hibernate. Maybe he'd know things these people don't."

"It's possible. At least we're better off now than we were before – we know a cure exists." The normally reserved Brit leaned forward to pat his arm, a rather shy gesture that tied in with his sudden use of 'Trip' instead of 'sir', even though officially they were both still on duty. "We'll save her somehow. The ship wouldn't be the same without her."

"Sure wouldn't." But at that moment Atio'annan returned, bearing a large tray on which rested several bowls containing various sorts of food as well as a squat terracotta flask and two goblets; and the unmistakable smell of fresh bread made them both aware that they were hungry.

Part way through the meal, Malcolm suddenly stopped eating and looked up with the expression of someone who has suddenly remembered something extremely unpleasant. He swallowed audibly, and his shoulders straightened. "Sir –."

"What's up, Malcolm?" Trip had been enjoying a piece of some kind of fish, and while it was poached as opposed to fried, it was still extremely tasty. He put down the wooden fork which was the only utensil that had been given to him, and looked worriedly across at his friend, thinking he might be ill.

"At the river. I panicked. I could have killed both of us." The grey gaze was blank with horror at the realization. "I failed in my duty."

"You'd nearly _drowned_," Tucker said mildly. "Give yourself a break. Most guys I know would have panicked a little in those circumstances."

"My job doesn't have 'breaks', Commander. My task's to protect the officers and crew. No more – no less. And I lost it completely." He looked down, blinking. "When we return to the ship, you'll have to put me on report."

"Malcolm." Where the heck did the man's ceaseless self-flagellation come from? "It was just one of those things. Shit happens. We're okay. Forget it."

"I can't forget it!" He dropped the plate, which was fortunately also wooden; the bread spilled on to the floor. "I could have killed you."

"But you didn't." Trip reached across and took a firm hold of one of Reed's wrists. He could feel the nervous tremors running through it.

"Not for want of trying, though!" The lieutenant's head jerked up again; his eyes were wild and desperate. "I failed in my duty, don't you understand that?"

"I _understand _that you were _afraid, _Loo-tenant. 'Afraid', that's all. You'd had a knock on the head and just swallowed half the river. Hell, you'd stopped breathin'! 'S far as I'm concerned, you didn't do a thing that wasn't natural in the circumstances."

"Natural for a bloody coward." The clipped English accent had dropped to a growl; his face twisted with self-loathing as he looked down again, unwilling to meet his superior officer's gaze as he made the shameful confession. "I – I'm afraid of drowning, sir. Aquaphobia. The – the captain knows."

"'_Aquaphobia_'?" Tucker sat back and stared at him, trying to fit this discovery into the picture. "And you crossed a _river_ with us?"

"I wasn't exactly planning on going for a swim, sir." He swallowed again. "I'm sorry." And after a slight pause, he added, "You saved my life, sir. Thank you."

"Malcolm. In my book, a brave man is the one who's shit-scared but doesn't let it stop him doin' what he needs to. And that was you yesterday. 'Specially if you're that afraid of drownin' in the first place. So quit tellin' me to put you on report, and that's an order. Or I'll put you on report for disobeyin' orders."

A reluctant grin appeared. "Yes, sir."

"And the next order is, pick that plate up and finish eatin'. We've gotta keep our strength up. The next time it might be my life needs savin', and then it'll be your turn. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant repeated with suspicious meekness, picking up the plate and retrieving the bread, which he put tidily with the bones of his own piece of fish.

"Yeah." Trip nodded, enjoying the sensation of being a tyrant and wondering how far he could push his luck. "And the _next _order is, quit criticizin' my shirts."

"You should quit while you're ahead, sir."

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	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

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They both slept again after they had broken their fast. The food, although naturally strange, had been edible enough: in addition to the fish there had been slices of roast meat, small fresh loaves, and pieces of various types of fruit. The flask had contained water flavored with fruit juice. In the light of what had happened to Trip last time, the two of them had hesitated before drinking it, but a swift check with one of the scanners (which had also survived the dunking intact) had revealed nothing sinister. Their hunger and thirst assuaged, and their remaining bodily requirements taken care of with the assistance of the standard waste packs that were thankfully still in their rucksacks, they checked that T'Pol was still sleeping deeply, and after running routine checks on their phase pistols and communicators lay down again and dozed off. For all their youth and strength the ordeal in the river had taxed both of them, and the ability to relax and recruit their energies was a luxury not to be spurned. _Enterprise_ had not yet sent that coded burst to let them know that she was free to return, and in view of the fact that this unexpected encounter seemed to hold out some hope (however tenuous) of accomplishing what they'd come for, they were in no hurry to leave. It was beginning to appear probable that not all of the bird-people could be tarred with the same brush.

Once the Healer had left them again, shortly after bringing them the food, Malcolm had stolen to the tent flap anyway to see how the land lay. Their own tent was pitched in the center of a considerable number of others, and he had seen sentries pacing the perimeter of the camp. Escape, even if they wished it, would be extremely difficult in broad daylight. Taking turns to sleep might be standard practice out in the open, argued Trip, but it was difficult to perceive how it would help them here. Conceding the point reluctantly, even Malcolm consented to taking no more than the basic precaution of sleeping with his phase pistol underneath his pillow, though he insisted that both of them should get dressed. For one thing, his uniform pockets contained various items (not all of them Starfleet issue) that might come in handy if things should suddenly turn unpleasant, and he wanted to have them to hand, just in case.

Trip's confidence, in the event, proved justified. They slept for another couple of hours before Atio'annan's voice roused them. Nothing had changed, except that the angle of the sun had moved on, and Trip announced that his headache had gone. This alone brightened the outlook somewhat, though as Malcolm turned to look at T'Pol still sleeping on her cot his heart contracted with doubt and fear. Was it really normal for her to sleep this long? Back on _Enterprise_ she was one of the early risers. He'd never known her to so much as arrive two minutes late for duty, or even looking even slightly less than wide awake and pristine.

"Doc, isn't it time she was wakin' up?" The man who'd fallen asleep lying turned towards her so that he could watch her dreaming and be the first to catch any faint signals she might make now turned deeply worried blue eyes towards the only person present who might have any answers. The UT was now stowed in the breast pocket of his uniform so it could work its magic uninterrupted.

"She'll wake in her own good time. In the meantime, perhaps we could give her a little water. If you'd care to lift her just a little for me, please?" Atio'annan had brought another flask along, together with a small beaker that was designed with a pouring lip; naturally for the bird-people, who had no mobile lips to mould to the rim of an ordinary goblet, drinking vessels had to have this modification. In this case it would come in handy for the purpose. He put it and the flask down briefly on the clothes chest while he and Trip made the necessary preparations for preserving T'Pol's modesty while giving her sips to drink, and Malcolm took the opportunity to ghost past it and run the scanner over the contents. Plain water. He hadn't truly expected it to be anything else, but it was his job, as well as his nature, to be suspicious.

He took up station at the foot of the bed, watching as Trip and the doctor got perhaps a quarter of a liter of the precious fluid down T'Pol's throat in a series of slow and careful dribbles. As one of a species who had evolved in desert conditions she probably didn't have the same requirements for water as an average Human did, but even Vulcans had to avoid dehydration. Watching, too, his friend's tireless tenderness towards the woman in his arms, he was conscious of a cruel pang of envy. No woman he'd ever encountered yet had engendered in him half of the passionate caring that he could see so plainly in Trip, and sometimes he wondered bleakly if the lack was in him. T'Pol was a very lucky woman. Perhaps, if she survived, one day she would realize just how lucky. For Trip's sake, he hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

"The First Warlord asks me to enquire whether you would feel well enough to receive him now," said Atio'annan, when T'Pol had been settled once again into her nest of pillows.

"Is that a polite way of saying he's waited long enough?" asked Malcolm.

"No, lord. He waits on your pleasure. If you do not feel well enough yet to leave your tent, he will attend you here if you wish."

The two officers shared a raised eyebrow. Manners among the higher ranks of these bird-people certainly bore a high gloss. As far as the armed forces were concerned, at any rate.

"I guess waitin' won't achieve anythin'." Trip shrugged. The Healer glanced at Reed for confirmation and, noting the faint nod, went out again.

"You know what puzzles me?" Malcolm said in a low voice. "This is a pre-warp civilization. They probably don't have contact with any world other than this. And yet they're taking us in their stride like they have aliens landing in their back yard every day!"

"It seemed weird to me. I mentioned it to the doc just before you woke up and he said they know other worlds exist, so they assume other people do, too. Perhaps having three different sorts of people on the world already makes them broad-minded or somethin'. I'm sure not complainin' about it though."

"I wish Captain Archer was here," sighed Malcolm.

"Are you implyin' I can't do diplomacy?" said the other man indignantly.

"Well let's face it; it's not exactly your strong suit. If they had an engine that needed fixing I'd back you every time, but you have this habit of putting your fingers into boxes of pebbles at the critical moment."

"Well if _you_ were in charge of diplomatic relations I could guarantee the ship bein' involved in a major interplanetary incident every goddamn week of the year!" Tucker took the bait, hook, line and sinker.

Malcolm, who had artfully thrown it out in the hope of diverting his friend's thoughts even momentarily from his worry about T'Pol, rallied gamely. "Well as a bloody _warlord_ I'd think that's my job, wouldn't you? But at least I'd know to keep away from pebbles while I was reducing the universe to charred rubble."

Trip pointed a finger wrathfully at him. "Keep this up, Mister, and I'll bust you down so far you'll think scrubbin' plasma conduits is _promotion."_

"If I get drummed out of Starfleet it looks like there are career vacancies here for someone like me." A speculative smile. "'Warlord Reed'. You know, that's rather growing on me."

"The only thing that'll be growin' on you if you try to quit _Enterprise_ is my fist in your ear."

"That sounds remarkably like intimidation, Commandah Tuckah. I shall file a complaint with the captain as soon as we get back on board."

"You do that. And I'll tell him what he can wipe with it." They grinned at each other.

The tent flap was pushed aside at that moment and Atio'annan re-entered. "Charles Tucker, Warlord Reed, I present First Warlord Mahé'lanné."

The man who ducked through in his wake was not, at first, particularly intimidating. Given that all the soldiers of this species appeared to share the build of a brick outhouse to some degree or other, this one was on the small side. His head, however, was the most dangerous-looking they'd seen yet. If the others' faces resembled those of hawks or owls, this one's was that of a blond eagle. He had the eyes to go with it too. And yet there was somehow an intense intelligence in that predatory stare.

The eyes swept the three members of the landing party, and missed nothing. Then they snapped to Malcolm, who had automatically assumed a formal position beside his commanding officer. Obviously he'd been briefed on what the Healer knew. "You are Lathaichan Reed?" His voice was deep and steady. He came to a halt a meter or so in front of them, one hand resting easily on his hip and the other on his belt, close to the hilt of a long sword that hung in a scabbard at his other side. Apart from that he wore neither weapons nor armor. His grey tunic was slightly longer than the Healer's, but just as plain. On each arm were heavy wristbands of carved leather that had seen considerable wear; his only other adornment was a long plaited strip of thin red ribbon that was fastened at the base of one of the feathers at the side of his neck. Instead of sandals he wore knee-high leather boots, also plain. He wore an air of quiet self-confidence, and stared as one who has the right to stare.

"Yes, sir." Malcolm's voice was as formal as his stance. "Allow me to present my senior officer, Commander Tucker." However they might tease each other in private, he would never for a moment forget what was due to his superior in front of others.

"Your _senior_ officer?" The bright yellow gaze switched to Trip. "You too are a lathaichan? I was not told this."

"No, sir, I'm not. That's not how it works where we come from. Lieutenant Reed here is the 'warlord'. If there's fightin' to be done, he's the one I trust to do it. If there's decisions to be made, I'm the one he trusts to do it." The Starfleet officer stood up straight and assumed the formidable air that he could, when he so chose. When dealing with a civilization that basically didn't have engines, the concept of 'chief engineer' probably wouldn't translate, so this was obviously the best he could come up with. It summed up their relationship in the command hierarchy fairly well, even if Reed noted sardonically that his explanation could be interpreted as 'brain and brawn'.

"And the female?" He looked at T'Pol.

"That's Sub-commander T'Pol. She's _my_ commandin' officer. She's a scientist." That word, at least, seemed to translate. "She's sick. We were hopin' that one of your people might be able to cure her." He took a deep breath. "We don't come from this world; you probably guessed that already. We're ... explorers. We travel from world to world, meetin' people and findin' out how they live. Introducin' ourselves sometimes, when we think it won't do any harm."

"So." He ruminated for a moment, then the yellow eyes blazed into sudden shocking hostility. "And have you a single item of proof for any of this?"

"No, sir, apart from what your own eyes tell you." Trip stood his ground and stared right back at him. They had their technical equipment of course, but that wasn't what this was about. "But when we visited a while back we met a lion lady – a Skair, I think the word was – and she could verify every word I've said if you ask her. Her name was Shiránnor."

"Shiránnor." The name evidently meant something to him. The blaze was muted again. "You spoke with a Skair? She was young, and fair-haired like you? And this was some little time since?"

"Sure. You know her then?"

"We have ... met." His tone was carefully neutral. "She did not speak of you. But now I come to think of it, it would not altogether surprise me." He considered again. "Very well. I will accept what you say, on one condition." He looked at Malcolm. "A lathaichan should know how to fight, should he not? If you defeat the opponent I shall choose in single combat, I shall take that as proof. And then we shall talk more fully."

"Done." The honorary warlord snapped the word out before Trip could voice his outraged refusal.

"A Healer's counsel, First Warlord," Atio'annan interposed gently, without apparent fear. "The man is wounded. Such a combat would be unfair."

"Tomorrow, then. I'll be fine by then." Catching his superior's furious eye, Reed glanced meaningfully at T'Pol. "And if I win, you do everything you can to help the officer over there. Is it a deal?"

From the slow blink, it was evident that the Emperor's executive officer wasn't particularly used to being asked if something was 'a deal'. But after a moment he nodded. "I accept the bargain." He looked around the tent again. "Are your quarters satisfactory? Are there any additional comforts you require?"

"We're fine, thanks." Trip spoke through gritted teeth.

Mahé'lanné inclined his head. "Then I shall speak to you again tomorrow." He ducked out of the tent and was gone.

"I shall call on you again from time to time," volunteered Atio'annan. "If you have any needs, please let me know at once. I shall be in the next tent on the left." And he followed the lathaichan out.

Trip waited for perhaps half a minute to give their visitors time to get out of earshot. Then, "Of all the crazy, irresponsible –"

"Well, perhaps you're right about my diplomatic talents." Reed sat down on the bed and grinned. "But didn't you tell him you trust my ability to do my own job?" He picked up a left-over slice of fruit, popped it into his mouth and shrugged. "When you're talking to a Klingon you don't start quoting love poetry. He just offered to hold a conversation in a language I just happen to speak rather well – at risk of sounding not particularly modest."

"Malcolm, you know I'd back you to beat any two of the rest of us on the ship with one hand tied behind your back! But I don't think he's talkin' about a friendly contest here! And you've never been taught how to fight against one of these people. You don't even know what weapons they use!"

"The Commander has a point."

For an instant neither of them could work out who the voice belonged to, then Tucker's face was irradiated with relief. "T'Pol! You're back with us!" He crossed over to her quickly. "How're you feelin'?"

"I have felt better in the past." She sighed. "I would be grateful for the application of one of Dr Phlox's hyposprays, if they are still in my rucksack."

"I'll take a look." The Lieutenant went over and began sorting through the still-damp jumble that the river had made of the previously orderly contents of the Vulcan's backpack while Trip brought her up to speed with events thus far. Fortunately the box was still present and intact, and he loaded one of the cartridges and brought it over to her just in time to see her pull up the top edge of the blanket a little self-consciously over the bruising on her chest.

"No need to worry yourself," Trip said quietly; he was sitting beside her now. "We didn't see anythin' we shouldn't have. And Malcolm's here to keep me in line if I misbehave again."

Her deep brown eyes lifted. "I have never suspected you capable of 'misbehaving' in any way towards me, Commander. Even without Lieutenant Reed's supervision."

_Ouch. _Malcolm winced inwardly. There was so much that these two were carefully not saying to each other. Sometimes the urge to bang their heads together was damn near irresistible; if ever he'd seen two people who were just dying to misbehave with each other to within an inch of their lives, Trip and T'Pol were they – though should it ever come about that they finally got around to discovering that, he suspected that whichever cabin it finally happened in would need a certain amount of reconstructive surgery afterwards. He pressed the hypospray to the side of her neck and watched the deep crease between her delicate eyebrows smooth out as the chemicals spread rapidly through her bloodstream. "So you don't approve of me fighting either, Sub-commander," he said lightly, to smooth over an awkward silence that seemed to be in danger of developing.

"It is always preferable to solve a problem by civilized means," she replied austerely. "'Violence is the last refuge of the defeated.'"

"For heaven's sake don't mention that to the Klingons. They'd never get over it."

"Oh, I don't know. I've been thinking it over, and I suppose it may be our best chance." Trip sighed. "After all, you're not exactly an amateur."

"Not exactly." He gazed into space with eyes closed to slits. "Trust me on this one."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

They brought him and Trip to the fighting-ground at about noon the next day.

T'Pol would have come with them, declaring that she was perfectly well enough to do so, but it was apparently forbidden for a woman to witness a duel. She stayed in the tent, wishing him success as he left. Vulcans, it seemed, didn't believe in 'luck'.

It was rather overwhelming to walk through what felt like a small village of tents, laid out in rows with military precision, and be the focus of so many eyes. Naturally word had spread. As soon as the visitors emerged they were the subject of intense curiosity. Mahé'lanné had given orders that they were not to be impeded in any way, but a crowd soon gathered and followed along behind them, murmuring and whispering. The sensation of being a rare exhibit being put on display for the first time was rather unpleasant. And these bloody people were so _tall._

The duel was to be fought out in a cleared space at the far side of the camp. A section of meadow had been trampled flat and marked out with ropes bound around stakes hammered upright into the earth. Quite a number of people were already there waiting, having arrived early to make sure to get the best view.

On one side a low wooden dais held a solitary chair, empty as yet. The Emperor's second-in-command would hardly be expected to jostle with the common crowd to watch what went on.

Reaching the field of combat, Malcolm and Trip ducked under the rope and stood waiting. Trip was pale and grim, Malcolm shifting gently on the spot to keep his body loose (he'd spent the last twenty minutes warming up) and smiling a small cruel smile that had its origins long before his service aboard _Enterprise_, was part of the world of Section 31 and half a dozen dirty little knife fights he'd survived.

Moments later an opening lane in the crowd announced the arrival of Mahé'lanné and Atio'annan. Along with them came the lieutenant's opponent. As the First Warlord mounted leisurely to the dais, the Healer accompanied the soldier into the ring.

It seemed rather odd that nobody was going to introduce them, but apparently this wasn't done either. Reed walked forward to stand facing his enemy, eyeing him with a stare that was deliberately flat, insolent, meant to to provoke.

Though by no means as tall as most of the others ringing the ground, the bird-man was the taller of the two of them by some measure. That was always going to be a given. He was also broader. Ditto. He was wearing the regulation tunic, tucked into the regulation belt. His face was neat and clever, like a peregrine falcon's, with black and cream feathers. The only difference was that the neck of the tunic was open, showing battle-scars on the muscular chest.

Scars weren't for survivors. Scars were for people who hadn't moved fast enough.

"The rules?" he asked a little disdainfully.

The Healer was carrying a wrapped bundle under his arm. He laid it on the ground and threw aside the wrappings. Perhaps it was imagination that he didn't look happy as he did so.

Two swords. Two knives. No rules.

He looked up at the Human. "Your word has been challenged. You are allowed the choice."

"I choose – neither."

"Your enemy is then allowed to choose," Atio'annan warned.

Malcolm shrugged and stepped back. He watched the soldier bend and pick up a knife. The assassin's choice. He'd have picked that himself, of course, if he'd intended to use either.

The doctor looked at him a little helplessly. "You can still change your mind and take the other knife."

_"Malcolm!" _A hiss from behind him, which he chose to ignore. _I don't tell you how to fix your engines._

Then the arena was empty, except for just the two of them.

Suddenly things felt better. Now he was on familiar territory.

He'd already sized up the ground; now, after retreating enough to allow himself a few seconds to finish loosening up (a proceeding that appeared to amuse the bird-people hugely) he came back to square up for the business of the day, watching carefully for any clues he might get from the opening move. It wouldn't pay to underestimate the man because he was big: all of these soldiers were, compared to the average human. They even towered over Trip. There was no way of saying why his opponent had been selected to represent the rest, either. It might be because he was particularly good, or just because he was the smallest among them and therefore it seemed fairer – though going down that route was dangerous. His best option was to watch and wait. True, it wasn't going to be half as easy to read intention in those inhuman eyes, and as for facial expressions he might as well try to interpret a brick wall. But the whole success of the endeavor rested on him now, and in this kind of situation, as far as he was concerned failure was not an option.

He was as ready now as he'd ever be. The bandage was no longer on his head, and the wound wasn't even hurting, though perhaps that was just because of the adrenaline coursing through his body. He was well aware that his opponent would have heard about that weakness, even if he could no longer see exactly where the injury was. He'd have to watch out for any attempt to take advantage of it,

The ring of watchers disappeared from his consciousness. He dropped immediately into a fighting crouch. Deliberately he blocked the knife from the uppermost level of his thoughts. It would only distract him if he paid it too much attention.

The first lunge told him what he needed to know. It was fast and dangerous: his opponent was a clever and well-trained fighter, certainly no half-trained butcher in armor, but then so was he. He evaded it without too much difficulty and landed a slamming backhanded blow to his foe's body with the blade of his hand. Had he been dealing with a human he'd have expected to break at least one rib with it. As it was, it fetched a grunt, but seemed to have little more effect than that, while the shock of it numbed his arm almost to the elbow.

So much for fighting clean. He rolled to get himself more space and revised his options. Right now an offensive battle was not going to work in his favour; he had to concentrate on staying alive and watching for an opportunity. Sooner or later one would present itself. He just had to make sure he was still in a position to take advantage of it, for he doubted that there would be a second. Still, he had hours and hours of training under his belt for just such a situation, and he was cool and confident. This was brawn versus brain, and given care – rather than overconfidence – brain would win.

The noise from the audience reached him distantly. It indicated that they did not approve of his tactics. Obviously they were not used to a fighter who slid away from attacks instead of countering them or making his own in response. But time and time again the blade went flickering past a blue-clad side or over a shoulder, while its wielder grew at first puzzled and then angry and then contemptuous. His anger did not make him any less dangerous, of course, just a very little less wary. His frustration was palpable. It took little imagination to deduce that in his eyes the small otherworlder was like a darting terrified lizard, difficult to trap. The more entrenched he became in that view, however, the more he would forget that some lizards are venomous….

Malcolm bided his time. He allowed a couple of strikes to come closer than was comfortable; one nicked his uniform, taking with it a tag of skin and leaving behind a bright red line across the skin beneath. He hadn't intended it to come quite _that_ close, but it was no more than a scratch, and it would serve his purpose. The bully thought he had his measure now, that he was worn down or getting careless. The roar of applause that greeted this was premature. He'd established a pattern now, and he simply waited for the attack he wanted that should finish the matter.

It did. The blade came in fast and low, and if he'd been a split second slower it would have gutted him. He seized the wrist behind the blade, twisted the outstretched arm in the wrong direction and hurled his weight down on it. There was a double crack as the arm popped at the shoulder and the elbow joint broke, and the knife dropped from a hand that could no longer grasp it. A vicious kick sent the disabled soldier sprawling – a snake with a broken back can still bite – and the lieutenant stooped, adder-swift, and snatched up the weapon. Instantly he revolved it in his fingers and raised it to throw. None watching doubted his ability or his accuracy, or his willingness to finish the job, and his fallen foe raised his uninjured arm in what was obviously a plea for mercy.

For long moment Reed stood poised, eyes glittering, then with a long breath he lowered the weapon and stepped back.

* * *

_"Yes!"_ Trip punched the air and jumped over the ropes to clap the victorious lieutenant on the back.

"The fight was fair. If unusual." Mahé'lanné held up a hand. "His life is yours, Lathaichan, to dispose of as you will."

"I don't want his bloody life. I want the services of an experienced doctor for my senior officer. As we agreed." Having proved his right to the title of 'warlord' by his victory, Malcolm was not likely to be particularly interested in its other fruits. Nor, with his body still pulsing with adrenaline, was he likely to exercise anything remotely resembling tact. "You do have such a thing?"

"It can be arranged." The First Warlord looked down indifferently at the soldier on the ground and nodded a command to his subordinates. "He has challenged a warlord. Take him away and kill him."

"No!" Reed had turned his back to exchange celebratory 'high fives' with Trip, but at this he spun around again, appalled.

Mahé'lanné too was turning away, and looked back in surprise. "Why not? He is your property, and you do not want him."

"I fought him because I needed you to believe us and help us, and because my officer's life's in danger. That was all. And he fought me because you ordered him to." There was a white line around the tactical officer's compressed mouth; standing beside him, Trip could feel the rage coming off him in waves. "He fought well. The only reason he lost is because he's not used to the way I fight. That's no bloody reason to kill him!"

The noble's deep eyes had narrowed slightly. "Do laithaichani on your world forgive those who rebel against them, then?"

"Nobody on my world kills without a reason," Malcolm spat back. "If I'd wanted him dead I could have killed him myself. The most valuable lessons I ever learned were from the people who beat me. If you kill everyone who loses, you'll never have anyone who learns anything!"

"I will have soldiers who understand the price of raising a hand against their superiors." The voice was flat and cold. "He knew the situation. If he had killed you, it would have proved you no lathaichan and he would have been rewarded for exposing your falsehood. But he did not, and he knows the penalty for rebellion. You are not on your world now, but on mine."

At this point Trip realized that it was time to intervene. It was the first time he had seen Malcolm exhibit this kind of raw aggression, and the revelation was troubling: Reed was usually so extremely self-contained. "If I can make a suggestion?" he said loudly. "Malcolm, if you don't want the guy as a slave and you don't want him killed, why don't you say what you do want done with him?" He trapped the grey glare, trying to make his lieutenant understand. At the edge of the crowd, Atio'annan was standing, watching with what appeared to be apprehension; a doctor who knew at least some of what would be necessary to restore even partial use to the arm of a man whose fighting days were probably over. Trip leaned closer. _"Liz Cutler,"_ he whispered.

"Liz...?" For a moment Malcolm looked completely blank. He'd spent more time trying to get away from Sickbay at any price than trying to get acquainted with the staff. Nevertheless, at some point the name of Dr Phlox's assistant must have registered with him – perhaps he'd heard it at some point when the Denobulan was ordering her to prevent him escaping as soon as his back was turned. The grin that he found from somewhere was more that of the mischievous friend Trip could recognize. "Right." He turned back to Mahé'lanné. "I've made my decision. I don't want him killed; if you say he's my property now, because that's the way it is on this world, he's mine to give away, yes?"

"That would follow." The nobleman watched him closely. So did his victim on the ground, the dark intelligent falcon-face waiting for his incalculable fate.

"Excellent." He picked up the knife, walked over and handed it, hilt first, to the doctor. "This was his property, he is my property, now they've both become your property."

There was a split second of absolute silence, and then Mahé'lanné started to laugh: genuine, hearty laughter, even if it was pitched strangely high for a man whose speaking voice was deep. "No warlord is complete who is not also cunning!"

The amusement spread rapidly on a rising volume. Admiration among these people was apparently expressed by pounding the breast with the flat of the hand, producing a loud drumming sound. Trip felt relief break over him like a wave, and at that moment he didn't even give a damn that Malcolm had collected all the credit for his idea.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Now she was quite alone.

Sub-commander T'Pol took a deep breath and tried to rearrange her thoughts.

Contrary to her first fears on that night when she had found herself unable to mediate, the ability had not, after all, deserted her. She had contrived to follow her usual daily mental cleansing routine on every day thereafter, but somehow it had never quite seemed to achieve its previous comfortable restoration of her faculties. Repining being illogical, she had settled for trusting that eventually things would return to normal. She had, after all, had an extremely unsettling experience, and the discovery that Commander Tucker was clearly determined not to allow the matter to fade safely into his unsavory amorous history hadn't helped. On top of which, she now had to carry on her duties as normal, hiding the fact that her life expectancy could now be measured in fractions of a year. This was her own choice. That didn't make it easy.

Perhaps not surprisingly, things hadn't returned to normal. She was beginning to suspect that they weren't going to.

Obviously, discovering that she was suffering from a life-threatening condition forced her to confront head-on the mortality that everyday life somehow contrived to push into the background. Usually she would have said, truthfully, that since death was unavoidable it was illogical to worry about it. She still wasn't worried, exactly. Well, not about dying, though she hoped that if a cure could not be found in time, then with Dr Phlox's help her passing could be made as painless and peaceful as possible. Unlike some Vulcans, she had no belief in the existence of a 'katra', and thoughts of a possible afterlife did not trouble her. Death was the end, and that was that.

What was preying on her mind could be summed up in the single word 'waste'.

Over and over again she saw the clear gaze of the Skair directed towards her. _Happiness is too brief to be wasted_. It was illogical to believe that Shiránnor had the power to foresee the future, but the subsequent events had been appallingly apposite.

Wishing that things could have been different was the most illogical exercise of all. Done was done, and what she had done had been with good intentions. At least, that's what she'd thought at the time. Now she was beginning to wonder.

Had, she, without admitting it even to herself, acted not out of logic but out of fear? Fear of the unknown, fear of the consequences, fear of letting go of certainty and allowing the storm wind to blow her where it would? Commander Tucker's effervescent determination to experience life to the full at every turn had often seemed extreme, unbalanced, somehow _untidy_. But when his turn came to die, it was questionable whether he would have half as many regrets over lost opportunities as she was having now. Logical or otherwise, they were there, and try as she might she couldn't make her regret that things hadn't been different go away. She'd had what might have been the best chance of her entire life, and she'd turned her back on it.

Now, of course, it was too late to set things right. The wasting and weakening of her body had seen to that. If he ever had truly desired her, he would no longer. And it was doubtful whether she could cope with the physical demands of an excited Human male now even if by some miracle he did. So that was a closed door. But if time and fate would combine to unlock it again, she would think differently if she ever heard that gentle, unmistakable knock from the other side...

She sat on the bed unmoving, in her meditation posture, but her eyes were fixed on the flap through which her junior officers had left the tent. It was illogical to harbor fears for Lieutenant Reed's welfare. She had seen often enough for herself that he was a ruthless and accomplished fighter with few peers, his already formidable skills honed even brighter by the Vulcan techniques he had absorbed from her during their training sessions in the gymnasium. Nevertheless, it was deeply unsatisfactory to be barred by this civilization's antiquated and discriminatory customs from watching the duel and seeing for herself that all went well for him. He, too, was a 'valued Starfleet officer' and ... she had come to realize, even if only in the privacy of her own heart could she admit it at last ... a good friend.

And suppose that things did not go well? It was too easy to predict that Commander Tucker would find it impossible to refrain from getting involved. He was so impulsive that his reaction to any 'foul play' that might ensue could be imagined without difficulty. These people were not governed by Earth or Vulcan standards of civilized behavior – the events of the previous visit had proved that. If Lieutenant Reed could not be beaten by fair means, he might be by foul. And ... _Trip_ would never stand tamely by and allow that to happen. He was no poor hand himself at self-defense; rigorous weekly training was one of the compulsory Starfleet duties that he would never have been allowed to skimp on even if he'd ever shown any inclination to do so. But what would probably be involved here was a long way from the energetic, malice-free bouts in the gymnasium. Quite probably weapons would be involved. She imagined the long blade of a Klingon _bat'leth_ slicing into his flesh, and she shuddered.

Outside, for some while, there had been silence, save that she thought she caught the occasional sound of a faint shout from far off. Quite suddenly the thought of enduring her imprisonment for a moment longer was not to be borne. She uncurled from her position, moving a little stiffly; of late her body was no longer the supple and unthinkingly graceful thing it had been. She had to find out what was happening. She should never have consented to being left here. Anything could be happening to him. To _them_, she amended hurriedly.

Earlier surveys had suggested that no sentries were posted around the tent. If these people's womenfolk were so docile and cowed that they accepted without argument diktats that kept them 'in their place', it would be logical to imagine that nobody would have thought it necessary to place anyone there now to keep a guard on her. They would think that she would accept her duty to stay where she had been told and tamely await her fate.

Well, Starfleet officers – even if only temporarily assigned – did _not_ tamely await their fates. Especially _Vulcan_ Starfleet officers.

She slipped to the tent flap and lifted it gently, just a fraction. There was indeed no one outside. The rows of cream-colored linen tents appeared to be deserted except for a couple of slender dog-like creatures tethered to one of the guy-ropes of the nearest, and they were asleep.

For the sake of modesty she had borrowed Trip's spare undershirt; her notions of hygiene were repelled by the idea of wearing her catsuit in bed as well as out of it, and there had seemed to be no great likelihood of their being allowed to leave the tent. Customarily she would have recoiled from wearing another person's clothing, but many things that had once seemed important to her were less so these days, and the sensation of wearing an item of Trip's clothing was obscurely comforting. This was adequate for walking around the tent in, especially as the other officers politely averted their eyes when she emerged from under her blankets, but if she was to meet opposition out there, as she probably would sooner or later, she would prefer to be properly and fully dressed. She went back to her cot, took off the shirt and quickly dressed in her own clothes. She had just self-administered her daily dose of medicine with the hypospray and was just deciding whether or not to don her belt and attach the phase pistol to it when she heard the sound of shouting, a great deal of it. Whatever it meant, she was not going to wait and find out her fate in here. She had had enough of these wind-pummeled walls of cloth trammeling her in. She wanted to breathe the free air again.

Drawing a deep breath, she stepped to the tent flap and threw it back. The sun outside was very bright. She stepped into it, turning resolutely to face the direction of the shouting.

The contest was over. A large number of people were coming back, flooding down the lane that had been left down the core of the camp. At their head were Malcolm and Trip – unharmed, and disheveled, and grinning, arms across each other's shoulders as though they'd been roistering at some disreputable shore leave establishment.

She was so relieved to see them safe that she couldn't even think up anything quelling to say about upholding Starfleet standards. It was also horribly likely that they'd surprised an extremely unVulcan expression of delight on her face, even if she controlled it extremely quickly into something far more appropriately moderate. "Commander. Lieutenant. I am ... pleased to see that you are both safe." The dozens of feathered faces staring at her faded into the background, became irrelevant. She hardly noticed as the crowd began to disperse, peering and whispering among themselves.

"Thanks to Lathaichan Reed here, we're just fine!" Trip slapped his junior officer on the back. "And we've all been invited to dinner. Or lunch. Or somethin'."

"But I asked if I could clean up first." The signs of exertion were still on him, together with a bloodstained slash in the uniform fabric just above his right hip that showed that his victory had not been entirely without cost. "I'm sweating like a pig." He had his undershirt draped around his neck like a towel. His smile at her was oddly diffident, as if he realized that he was presenting rather less than his usual well-groomed appearance and knew that Vulcans had _objections_ to smelly, sweaty Humans.

Her nose crinkled involuntarily at the discovery that he had indeed not made use of the canister of anti-perspirant in his rucksack before going out to battle, but perhaps he had justifiably had more important things to think about at the time. "You would appear to be in some need of a shower," she admitted truthfully.

A shower, however, was a luxury that in any accommodation as basic as an army camp was apparently not to be had. Malcolm had to settle for a large wooden tub, lined with cotton cloth to protect against splinters, into which a steady stream of servants emptied pails of hot scented water while he stripped off his uniform and inspected the minor wound on his hip. Now that he had time to feel it, it stung like hell, he informed his colleagues, uncharacteristically revealing for once with the giddiness of achievement. He even permitted himself to gasp when Trip applied astringent antiseptic to the cut from the medical pack in his rucksack, but reverted to type in refusing to have a dressing on it. "Is that bath ready yet?" he inquired.

"I believe it is." T'Pol said nothing as she watched a vial of some kind of oil being emptied into the hot water tub, and several handfuls of blue flower petals scattered over the surface. She had some ado to resist a smile. It was rather unlikely that Lieutenant Reed would appreciate the extra additions to his ablutions, however kindly meant they were.

And indeed he didn't. "Oh, f... for crying out loud," he muttered. "I'm going to smell like a tart's boudoir."

"In you go, Loo-tenant!" Trip guffawed. "Got to have you all dandied up for the victory feast!"

It was hardly practicable in the circumstances to ask for a refill. Glowering, Reed divested himself of his vest, used one of the towels that had also been provided to preserve his modesty while he removed his briefs, and lowered himself – not without a certain amount of wincing and muttered imprecations over the heat of the water, the perfume and the bobbing lake of flower petals – into the tub. However, there was no doubt that on the whole it was agreeable, and comforting to any aches that remained after his exertions. Once fully immersed, he relaxed with a groan of pleasure and began idly flicking the petals about.

Atio'annan looked into the tent a few minutes later. "If it pleases you, Commander Tucker, baths have also been prepared for you and your ..." he hesitated over the appropriate title, "lady superior."

"Enjoy the petals, Trip." Malcolm grinned evilly.

T'Pol was relieved to find that the promised baths, set up in adjoining rooms in the tent next door, were every bit as luxurious as the one Lieutenant Reed had been given. Listening with a faint smile to the sound effects that indicated that Commander Tucker was no keener on extremely hot and strongly scented baths than his tactical officer had been, she lowered herself gratefully into the water. The perfume, although it was indeed strong, was not at all unpleasant, and to a Vulcan the temperature was perfectly agreeable. It made her feel better than she had felt for some time. Perhaps it was not really appropriate to hope that dinner might be delayed for a time, but it was rather hard to resist the temptation to do so. A luxury like this did not come her way very often, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Evidently their by-now rather grubby and unhygienic Starfleet uniforms were thought to be unsuitable clothing for a banquet, for when they finally emerged from their baths each of the landing party found that a set of clean clothing, bird-people style, had been provided for them. It took some persuasion from T'Pol to make the two men don the tunics and sandals, but on the whole she thought that they looked better in them than they seemed to think. Trip had been given a tunic of a blue shade that almost exactly matched his eyes. Malcolm's was white with a broad grey stripe down one side of it. He had also been given a long braided red ribbon, which it took little imagination to conclude he was supposed to wear hanging down from his hair. Not without a degree of ill-concealed and unwelcome amusement, Trip's nimble fingers twisted the open ends of it into a damp black lock. T'Pol herself had been given a full-length tunic of silver-shot cotton, of an incredibly fine weave: its neckline was cut open almost to the belted waist and tied across with silver cords. The woman for whom it had been made evidently was not as generously endowed as she was. She had to use quite a lot more of the cosmetic cream than usual. When the Vulcan emerged in it (after a vain struggle to make the cords pull the two sides of the garment fully together) the effect on the two waiting men was positively electrifying.

"... Sub-commander, you look .._. _er... well, you _do_ look different." Malcolm blushed like a sunset, and tried to avert eyes that suddenly seemed magnetized in a highly inappropriate direction.

"He means you look absolutely beautiful," said Trip softly. How blue his eyes were, how incredibly blue...

It was unVulcan to blush, but she feared the tips of her ears might be changing color. _Do you know how beautiful you are? _And this time he was saying it without any drugs in his system. Saying it because he meant it. If only things were different. _Illogical. _If only they could have another chance. _Illogical. _ If only she still had a future...

"I am glad you approve." Somehow she found appropriately neutral words. "Now I suggest we do not delay any longer. Atio'annan is waiting outside to escort us."

"And I suggest we don't go without these." Malcolm held out the three translators. "Lucky we've all got belts they can clip on to."

"Pistols?" asked Trip, nodding towards the one that Reed was already wearing clipped in place.

"I think it's appropriate for a warlord." The tone was neutral, a little weary; after a fight and a hot soak, some of the adrenaline was obviously wearing off. Nevertheless the tactical officer evidently had not lost his innate wariness. "I don't think they know what it is, so I won't cause any offense wearing it. After today I don't think we're in much danger, but don't let's split up for any reason. Especially you, Sub-commander. We don't know how they behave towards women."

"I wonder where they got the dress from? I haven't seen any women around here. Perhaps we're gonna meet some now."

T'Pol frowned slightly, but Trip's expression was more apprehensive than enthusiastic. His previous experience with bird-people females was hardly likely to have made him eager to repeat the encounter. The lieutenant had his mouth open to make a probably pointed, if teasing, remark when he was forestalled by the Healer stepping into the tent.

"The garment was intended as a gift for King Sor'ansal's new bride from Empress Pra'crái," said Atio'annan, who had obviously overheard the question. "Two of our officers will be visiting the King during their journey, and the Empress sent it in their care. Vede'hanax thought it fitting to give it to you instead, since you have no garments of your own."

"It was extremely considerate of him, but I trust the Empress will not mind him doing so." She raised an eyebrow in some concern.

"She'll understand. Indeed, I would imagine she will only be pleased that it was suitable. Our laws of hospitality to guests are very strict, even to guests less elevated than yourselves." He hesitated. "I do not know how it is with your people, and unfortunately we have no women here other than yourself who could do the same for your colleagues here, but if you choose to offer your token to any of our officers, I must tell you that they would be honored. And that you would be treated with every care and respect."

"'Offer her token'?" repeated Trip in puzzlement.

"Indicate her willingness to honor the Goddess with them." The healer seemed equally puzzled. "Don't your people honor your Goddess?"

Malcolm put a hand over his mouth, imperfectly concealing a grin. "Ah – I think this is one of these things we do differently on our world," he said, evidently trying not to laugh as the horrified realization on Trip's face was succeeded by an indignation that was not altogether diplomatic, however secretly gratifying it might be to one member of the party.

"I hope that they will not be disappointed, but I must unfortunately decline. I am grateful for their consideration, but I am not feeling well enough at present." T'Pol, at least, _was_ taking the diplomatic line.

"I was certain that would be the case. But it's one of the courtesies that has to be offered." He bowed. "Would you care to accompany me?"

The tent into which they were shown was rather larger, but not a great deal more luxurious, than their own. Some of its furnishings seemed finely made, though their quality showed more in the craftsmanship than the amount of ornamentation. Its chief piece of furniture was a long trestle table. The benches that provided the seating for it suggested that possibly this was more often used for planning sessions and councils of war than banqueting, but the catering staff had done their best considering the short notice. A yellow cloth covered it, lending something of a glamour, and food had been laid out on surprisingly fine tableware. There were several flasks of wine, platters of various types of meat, loaves of bread, small sweet cakes, and heaped baskets of fruit of quite a number of different kinds. There were also some rather less appetizing things like bowls of what looked like pieces of raw intestine, but happily these were in the minority.

Mahé'lanné was waiting for them, along with eight other men from what appeared to be his senior staff, all wearing the plaited red ribbon that denoted their rank. They were all dressed very formally in the same sort of clothing that Trip and Malcolm were now wearing. A student of falconry would have had a field day comparing the variations between their faces. There were some who had short, strongly hooked beaks like a falcon's, but most had larger beaks like a hawk's or an eagle's. The feathers were mostly in shades of brown with flecks of black and occasionally white, though the smallest of the 'falcons' had cream feathers liberally streaked with grey. The feathers ran down the backs of their necks, tapering out just below shoulder level. The scales on their legs continued on to the sandal-clad feet that had three distinct bones each ending in a clawed toe; just above the heel there was what appeared to be a fourth, redundant toe, with a long sharp spur on it. Atio'annan introduced each of the officers to the visitors, and then bowed to the First Warlord and quietly retired.

* * *

It was an enjoyable meal. Trip found quite quickly that the bird-people were socially adept; they must have many questions that they would have liked to ask, but their curiosity was courteously restrained. The visitors were not expected to divert the company or take part in the conversation that flowed readily around them unless they chose to. Although it was inevitable that much of it was 'shop' and therefore quite incomprehensible to them, quite a lot of it was witty and amusing, and it was evident that sincere efforts were being made to include and entertain them.

At one point the talk turned towards the subject of the Skaira. Trip introduced it, with the memory of his captain's strange abstraction in his thoughts; surely these people, who lived and interacted with the lion-women on a daily basis, might be able to shed some light on the mystery of Shiránnor's effect on a man who had encountered her only so briefly but seemed unable now to get over her. Not that he disclosed that last fact – that would have been an unforgivable disloyalty to his friend as well as his captain; but he saw no reason to conceal the fact that Archer had been fascinated by her.

The bird men listened to the story, nodding. Evidently they were unsurprised by the fact that a Skair could be so overwhelming to a visitor from another world. It took little power of observation to detect that that the Skaira were held in great respect, if not awe, by the bird-people; every time the word 'Skair' was uttered – or even the alternative use-name of 'Daughter', the speaker made a slight gesture with the left hand as though to turn the wrist upwards. On his querying this, it was explained that the action was a diminutive of the wrist-turn performed in the presence of holiness. No, his informant clarified, seeing the visitors' puzzled looks; the Skaira themselves were not 'holy'; the gesture was only to acknowledge their status as the Daughters of the Mother. It transpired that the lion-women were intellectuals as well as mystics – they studied the Law and the arts of healing, and occupied their own niche in the planet's life. But overwhelmingly their existence centered around the worship of the Goddess Shieih. That in itself set them apart. It earned them enormous respect. Not even Vede'hanax himself would fail to render it.

The visitors heard all this with wonderment and some concern. It did not explain why Captain Archer had been so badly affected, but it did not bode well for his recovery, either. The bird men were in no doubt that the Skaira had powers beyond their ability to explain; civilized thinking might look down its nose and sneer with words like 'primitive superstition', but the cumulative effect of so much belief by people who were far too intelligent to be dismissed as ignorant savages was still pretty intimidating.

Towards the evening it was mentioned that the reason why Mahé'lanné was in this region was that one of the officers here was to receive his first independent command. The men outside would be fighting in his newly formed Division from now on; they were all the members of his command structure, and had taken the vows of allegiance to him that day. The only thing that remained for him to do before taking up his appointment was to undergo a ritual washing in the river that evening, and they had come here specifically for that reason. It was traditional for the First Warlord to be present, and to hand over his staff of office during the remainder of the solemn ceremony afterwards before returning to the city on the coast a little further north.

"Wouldn't any old river do?" asked Trip curiously, looking across at Fra'heálla, the soon-to-be new Division Commander, one of the more hawk-headed individuals, whose narrow chestnut feathers had a luminous sheen across them.

"No," answered Mahé'lanné, pouring himself another goblet of wine. "This river flows down from the Holy Mountains. Its full name is _Sh'mar fy'e Kevharth_ – 'the water that has washed the paws of the Goddess'. Any warlord who takes on himself the power of life and death must wash in it, since it is to Her that he must account for his use of it." He looked up again, steadily, at his guests. "We came to it two days since to make the first prayers, and found what we did not look for. Of all the gifts She might have sent us, you were certainly the one we would have least expected."

"I'm not sure we'd qualify as a gift. We fell in by accident when we were tryin' to cross it." Finding that their status as visitors from another world was already known to the company, Trip explained to them all the reason for their hunt for the parasite creature, and how their success at finally securing one had turned to failure. "We had a real problem findin' one of them at all, but I guess it's long gone by now."

"You shot it without killing it?" One of the other warlords turned curious eyes on Malcolm. "With what weapon? A sling?"

Reed paused before replying. "With a weapon that comes from my world," he said deliberately at last, removing the phase pistol from the clip he'd attached to his belt and laying it flat on the table. "That." Strictly speaking this was incorrect, since he had used the rifle to make the shot, but the principle was the same.

There was a general movement around the table as the Venelai – that was the name that the bird-people gave to themselves, a fact which had emerged during the course of the meal – leaned forward to study the pistol with enormous interest. "But it hasn't any blade," observed Fra'heálla, frowning in the effort to understand how such a device should be used. "Is it thrown?"

"I'm not allowed to explain. Or let anyone try it for fun. I'm sorry." His fingers slid caressingly around the familiar hand-grip. Only someone who knew him very well would have known that he was ready to snatch it up in an instant.

T'Pol, who was sitting almost opposite him, tensed slightly, evidently fearing that there might be some reaction of disappointment and anger from their hosts, but the men only nodded.

"You've dedicated it to your God, as we do our swords?" asked one.

Something that was close to amusement glimmered in the grey eyes. "You could put it that way."

The Vulcan frowned. Trip grinned to himself, imagining her puzzlement; she was undoubtedly thinking that her perusal of the data base on Earth's more prevalent faiths hadn't mentioned that any of them made mention of weapons dedication, but then she didn't understand that for Malcolm, Starfleet regulations pretty well _were _God.

"As soon as the ceremony is over and the Division officers have moved out, those of us who remain will help you in your search," said Mahé'lanné. "But it is late in the year for these creatures to be found. All that can be done, however, will be done."

"And if we can't find one – you'll take us to a doctor as you agreed?" Malcolm didn't raise his head, but the glance was like a leveled blade.

"The best Healer I know of is a Skair who lives in the Temple in the city. I shall take you with me and ask for her help."

"And you think she'll be willing to give it? To someone from another world?"

"It is her calling. I do not think that where you come from will matter to her, except in the matter of how your bodies will respond to the treatments we have. But I should counsel you that I do not know how much she will be able to do with this." He glanced at T'Pol with what looked like compassion. "It is very late in the year. The People of the Wood are all asleep by now, and it is they who know how to heal ihaile bites."

"We're not givin' up." Trip spoke through a dry throat, but all the determination he felt was in his voice. Nothing short of death would make him stop. "There was one of those things out there two days ago. There's gotta be another."

"I trust so." The warlord poured more wine into his gold goblet and raised it. "I will drink to our success in the hunt tomorrow."

* * *

The initiation ceremony was a surprisingly simple affair. The other-world guests were allowed to attend, although normally it was a private ceremony in which only two witnesses, both senior warlords in their own right, were expected to participate.

As soon as the sun sank low towards the tops of the mountains in the west the seven of them walked out of the camp towards the river. The tents were seemingly deserted. It transpired that at the signal horn the soldiers within had laid aside whatever they were doing and knelt in silence while the ceremony took place; it was, after all, their Division Commander who was about to petition the Goddess for Her blessing. Their lives would rest on his decisions thereafter.

The sky had cleared of cloud. It was a good omen, though with the vanishing of that insulating cloud the temperatures were falling rapidly and the visitors had put on their jackets. (This was at Mahé'lanné's suggestion; they might not have suggested it themselves in case it wasn't appropriate wear for the occasion, but the tunics were far from adequate protection even though that bitter wind had blown itself out.) Trip had taken a blanket from T'Pol's bed and draped it around her shoulders for extra warmth; the fact that she accepted it with gratitude twisted the knife of worry even deeper into his heart. The Venelai themselves appeared to have a remarkable tolerance for the cold. No-one else had put on any additional clothing. Fra'heálla himself had actually removed some, and was now clad only in a kilt of gold-shot blue fabric. A deep gold collar glinted around his neck. The musculature of his torso was very impressive, but he seemed hardly conscious of any of the people around him as he walked towards the surface of the water that was now reflecting the peach and rose sky with its glory of early stars. His eyes were very wide and intent.

At a gesture the visitors stopped, perhaps eight meters or so from the river's edge. Around them the trees were silent and solemn. The Venelai walked on a little further, perhaps half the remaining distance, and then three of them stopped, too. The remaining one paced onwards, into the shallows, and steadily further on until he was thigh deep in the rushing water. Then he stopped, and slowly turned left to face the mountains. Holding himself very upright and very still, he drew out the dagger that was belted at his waist, raised it as though showing it to the evening sky and then extended his other arm and drew the blade across the inside of his forearm. Blood sprang up fiercely in its wake. Still moving with that slow and ceremonious formality he drew the bleeding surface across his chest in salute and then sank to his knees in the river.

The water came up almost to his neck. The current was fast, and pushed against him; the cold must have been murderous. But he stayed still, eyes wide and fixed on the distant mountains, for perhaps a count of twenty. Then he stood up and lowered his arm.

There was no wound on it.

The three Venelai on the bank set up a thin, eerie crying, almost a howl, with no humanity in it. Fra'heálla turned to face them and waded out of the water, still absolutely unblinking. It was not clear why, after the steadiness of his earlier gait, he was now almost stumbling. Perhaps the cold accounted for some of it, but these people seemed to be able to deal with cold better than humans could. He came level with Mahé'lanné, who was flanked by the two witnesses, and fell down on to his knees.

The translators did not process what was said next; the visitors had been told that on this occasion another language was used, one that was now largely extinct except for the ancient words that were still part of one or two sacred ceremonies. There was not much of it, but the exultation was clear, bayed out across the field of stars. The First Warlord had gone out carrying a short length of what looked like carved wood, banded with gold: it was now seen to be a bundle of individual rods bound together, representing the different units of the new Division bound together under their new Commander's authority. He handed it over with obvious pride and affection, and the witnesses howled again as the authority was given and accepted.

Those in the camp behind had obviously been listening intently. As the second howl rang out across the river a shout went up, and the camp exploded into life. The intention seemed to be to make as much noise as possible. Anything that could be struck to produce a sound of any significant possible volume was pressed into service. Men sang and danced; fires sprang up, and the previously quiet and orderly rows were suddenly filled with rejoicing soldiers.

Fra'heálla alone did not return to the camp. He sat down at the edge of the river, his back to the pandemonium, and stared out across the darkening sky. The others walked back together, saying nothing, though the visitors shared incredulous looks as though doubting what they themselves had seen. It had been some kind of illusion, of course: a small container of some kind, perhaps even the hilt of the knife, made to contain blood that could be made to seem to pour from under the blade when held at a certain angle. Real wounds did not – could not – heal like that. But however it had been done, it had been quite uncannily realistic.

"If you would be willing, I have yet more to talk of with you in private," said Mahé'lanné when they reached their tent. "But you will wish to rest for a while, I think. And change into your own clothing, perhaps. The wind is cold now that the winter is nearly on us."

There was no doubt that, worse for wear as their uniforms might be, in the heat conservation department they were a big improvement on the tunics. The tent seemed welcoming and familiar now, and a second brazier had been brought in and lit, so that the air was warm and scented by comparison with the chill of the swiftly gathering dusk outside. Quickly the three of them shed their borrowed finery and got back into their familiar Starfleet clothing. Trip saw with foreboding that T'Pol was very quick to sink down on to her bed and lie back on it. Her face was pale; she looked exhausted. He spread her blanket over her and added his own for good measure.

"You should stay here and rest," he said. "Get some sleep. Malcolm and I will take care of everythin'."

"I would be glad to lie down for a while." Her tone was unnervingly compliant.

_I swear to God, once we can start lookin' tomorrow I'm not gonna go to sleep again till we find on one of those damn critters. And I'll get hold of it if I have to catch it with my bare hands._

* * *

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	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Eventually Mahé'lanné came to them.

A couple of underlings brought in chairs and a table so that they could sit and talk in comfort. The braziers were piled higher with scented wood, so that the warmth of them stole out into the tent and their soft light diffused across the canvas. T'Pol had slept for a while, but woke when the First Warlord entered. None of them needed any more food, but more wine was brought, along with a jug of water to dilute it with for those who cared to do so. She accepted only water, and placed her chair a little further back so that she could sit and watch unobtrusively.

"The truth is that I am in fact not surprised to meet you." The warlord sat back and crossed one leg high above the other, grasping the ankle of it with one hand without apparent difficulty. "I had already heard at least one of you described – in quite vivid detail – elsewhere." He looked mildly at Trip. "It may well be that there are more than one of your people who fit the description so closely, but your resemblance to what I heard is so remarkable that I hesitate to call it coincidence."

"You heard about that?" The engineer sat up straighter in surprise.

"By this time I imagine the whole continent has heard of it. There were far too many people involved in it to even attempt to keep it secret." The yellow eyes blinked slowly. "Then I take it that you were, indeed, the person involved."

"Yeah." His voice had taken on a wary note. "So what exactly had you heard?"

"That a male individual not belonging to any of the Three Peoples had been taken prisoner, and held against his will by force, before being drugged with the express intention of forcing him – forcing an _unwilling partner_ – to honor the Goddess. To defile Her greatest gift, and abuse a guest sent by the Gods. And if that was not sufficient, it was planned that to ensure his silence he should be murdered afterwards." His voice was quite cool, but he had been holding his goblet in his free hand as he spoke, and when he released it afterwards it was visible that the fine gold had dented under the pressure of his talons. "The females concerned had been the daughters of a minor king, intended as the brides of the Emperor himself. They had not even the excuse of ignorance or stupidity. Our People had been disgraced. Our laws, even our customs, had been set at nothing. It was even suggested – and, I think, widely credited – that the visitor might have been the God Himself. So great was the consternation that there was talk of setting up a shrine at the place where you returned to the heavens in your winged chariot."

_"What?"_ Trip sat forward suddenly with an incredulous look.

Malcolm stifled a snort of irrepressible laughter in his wine cup. "The Church of Saint Trip," he murmured, earning himself a glare from the purported saint thereof.

T'Pol looked severe, though she refrained from comment. The lieutenant's reaction to his superior officer's supposed divinity was somewhat inappropriate, but she could not help being horrified by the abject depths of these people's credulity.

"Lesser crimes might have had appropriate punishments set out in the Law," continued the warlord imperturbably. "As it was, we who sat in judgment on those concerned found ourselves in a world without guidelines. Once assured of the guilt of those concerned, we were at a loss for some gesture that would make sufficient reparation. If you _had_ been the God, many feared that if we erred on the side of clemency it would lead to ... consequences."

"You didn't kill them!" He jumped to his feet.

"It was certainly suggested. And by a method that is rarely used, except for the worst of criminals. That it was not implemented was solely thanks to someone you tell me you have met ... Priestess Shiránnor."

Briefly the First Warlord recounted the story of the trial. Without noticeable revulsion he revealed the awful nature of the death that the three women would have been condemned to but for the intervention of the young Skair who had arrived at the city only a few hours before them. She had been invited to attend the trial as a courtesy only, but had proved pivotal to events. Finally, he explained the nature of the cruelly apposite penance that had been imposed on the criminals instead.

Trip stared at him when the recital was finished. "So these ... princesses ... ended up as _whores?"_

The word did not translate directly, since there was no equivalent for it in Kerriel's Common Speech. It appeared that paying for sexual services was completely unknown and would, indeed, have been considered blasphemous. The princesses had been 'offered' the choice of service in the Temple of the Goddess in Thervanil. These services included periods when they would be sexually available to men, but it did not carry the connotations that such servitude implied to the visitors. Although they would have no choice in their partners, the culture inculcated into its menfolk a profound reverence for female sexuality. A woman in the Temple represented the Goddess, and as such merited not only desire but deep respect; even women who had no connection with the Temple at all were free to go there in search of physical satisfaction, on the understanding that they took whatever partner the Good Goddess sent them, and many did so. The princesses, therefore, had not been plunged into quite such an appalling situation as the original impression of it had suggested.

"It was a kinder fate than that which they intended for you," said the warlord drily.

"I can't believe she would have suggested somethin' like that!" Even the explanation had not succeeded in fully reconciling Trip to the idea. He was shocked by the idea that Shiránnor, who had struck him as being a thoroughly kind person, would have been so vindictive.

"She saved their lives." He shrugged. "And prevented them from suffering a death that can take days. I witnessed a roping once; it is not a thing one forgets. I think that counts for something."

"Not bloody much, at that price!" Malcolm took a gulp of wine.

"When your life is all you have left, you realize its full value. And it offered a way of making amends to the Goddess also, for what they had done. That must not be forgotten."

Trip's face creased in perplexity. "'Amends'? What kind'a _amends?"_

"Honouring the Goddess is an act of worship in itself, when it is done freely and willingly between men and women. That was why Vede'hanax was bound to consult the Skaira on this occasion. What they planned to do to you was not only a crime; it was an affront to the Goddess Herself. Your murder would have been a crime, of course, but that would have been of secondary importance; the Emperor could have dealt with that. It was the planned rape that required expiation."

"You mean accordin' to your laws murderin' me would have been less significant than rapin' me?"

"In spiritual terms, far less. It is not that we do not value life. You saw for yourselves this evening that we take the responsibility for dealing out death very seriously. But rape is a corruption of a thing that we perceive as having the highest value of all. Goddess-honouring is _sacred_. Priestess Shiránnor could not view it lightly. In my view her judgment was masterly: it combined punishment and atonement both."

"Their civilization has a right to its own values, Commander." T'Pol spoke very softly. "We are in no position to influence their thinking, nor do we have a right to try."

"Well, as the intended victim I think my opinion should count for somethin'." He looked at Mahé'lanné challengingly. "Or doesn't the victim get a voice in your justice system?"

"It would have done if you had been there. But you were not."

"Well. That's a fair point. But if I ever get to meet this Emperor of yours, do ya think I could ask him about rethinkin' things? Especially since I don't happen to be divine or anything."

"I do not think he would object to hearing your opinion, as long as it was offered with due respect." A slight smile. "Our civilizations differ in many things, apparently, but it seems we both value justice. Even if we measure it differently."

* * *

"Malcolm, will you shut the hell up?" came an irate whisper from Trip's bed later that night.

"'Speak Lord, for thy servant listeneth.'" It was no good. As hard as he tried to suppress them, and as inappropriate as the circumstances were, Malcolm had got the giggles. It didn't happen often, but when it did it happened big time. He buried his face in his pillow and tried to distract himself by plotting weapon calibration tables, but nothing could distract him for long, and sooner or later another suffocated siren wail of laughter would emanate from the depths of the pillow. The idea of a shrine to Saint Trip being set up at the place of the chief engineer's ascension into heaven by shuttlepod had seized him, and the more he thought about it the funnier it became. The prospect of unlimited teasing on that subject was one to be savoured: the possibilities for prefixing the next and many future requisitions for additional power for the armoury with something along the lines of 'Grant, we beseech thee, O great Saint Trip' were too delicious for words. It was only a pity, he reflected, that the regulations against having naked flames on board ship would prevent him from setting up a votive shrine in Engineering, complete with a candle. T'Pol had been able to obtain special permission to bypass those safety regulations so that she could carry out her meditation practices correctly, but he doubted that the captain would extend that license to any would-be worshippers of St. Trip. Not to mention that if Trip happened upon a lighted candle in Engineering he'd probably take measures to extinguish it in a way that was also against regulations, or would have been if anybody had ever thought of the possibility of it happening.

After the latest in a long line of insufficiently muffled outbursts of hilarity had disturbed the peace, the newest saint in the ranks of the blessed expressed his feelings on the matter with a phrase that none of the others had ever been reported to have employed, and one that by no stretch of the imagination could be described as a benediction.

"'This is the Word of the Lord'," murmured Malcolm, before resorting to the pillow again to chortle over his own sparkling repartee. Several solid impacts on his quaking back from his superior officer's pillow didn't diminish his enjoyment of the situation in the least, though they probably relieved the saint's feelings somewhat.

Eventually something that passed for silence descended on the tent, broken only by the occasional stifled chuckle.

* * *

It was now very late.

The camp had fallen silent long ago. Only the sentries paced steadily around the perimeter, and somewhere a hunting bird cried piercingly under the glittering stars.

She couldn't sleep. She'd even meditated, sitting on her cot bed long after the two men had finally fallen asleep. Her white space had failed to exercise its customary beneficial effects, and she emerged from it still distracted.

She looked sideways.

Trip was sleeping on his back, the blankets thrust down to his waist. One arm was flung up above his head as though he had been restless. As she watched, the fingers on that hand twitched ever so slightly, and a tiny, fleeting smile lent his mouth a bewitching curve. He was dreaming.

Perhaps that was what did it.

Before she could think better of it she slipped from the bed, silent as a shadow. Careful not to let so much as the fabric covering her thigh press against the bedclothes, she bent over him.

In sleep he looked so young and vulnerable. His mouth was soft and relaxed and ...

... _kissable._

Just one. Just one tiny kiss. So soft, if he felt it at all he would think that a little white moth had brushed by him.

There. He smiled. Almost he looked as though he might wake; as though the blue eyes would open, and he would see, he would know...

She held her breath.

He opened his eyes.

His hand came up to her face softly, cupping her jaw with the gentlest of movements, as though she were a bird he was frightened to scare away. In the dim light his face was incredulous, awed, enchanted.

The fingertips that were so sure and deft on the workings of the tiniest relay in the ship's electronics trembled ever so slightly against her skin. _I want to lay you down and take you to heaven._ His hand slipped softly to the back of her head and pulled her down to him. Their lips met.

His breath fanned softly across her cheek; his lashes dropped as he closed his eyes to concentrate on the incredible sensations. She copied him, trembling a little at her own daring, his nearness, the immensity of the train of events that she might have set in motion. Here and now was not the time: not with another officer asleep in his bed not a meter away, and one moreover who was liable to waken at the slightest sound. But even if fate would never give her a chance to discover everything else that he could have offered her, at least she would have this to remember.

Every moment that she spent lost in his kisses was increasing the danger of discovery; was making it more and more difficult to stop. With an effort that felt as though she had torn half of her flesh away she pulled back and fled back to her own bed. She slipped under the blankets and lay still, trembling, remembering, wondering … feeling his ache of loss as though it were her own.

* * *

Nothing is more stealthy and secretive than a Vulcan.

Except perhaps an armoury officer, who, although he is lying on his stomach so that he can sleep as usual with his hand next to his phase pistol under the pillow, has one eye not quite buried in the crook of his arm. The years of experience have given him a sixth sense which ordinary sleep on away missions certainly does not switch off. He knows, too, not to betray by the smallest change in the long, soft rhythm of his breathing that he is no longer asleep, nor to part his lashes by more than the tiniest fraction lest any light there is in the room be reflected on the surface of the watchful eye beneath, and give him away.

Thus it was that when T'Pol finally, and for the first time in her life, acted on impulse, she was not quite as unobserved as she thought.

Saint Trip, Malcolm reflected with a faint, hidden smile, appeared to have at least one devotee.

* * *

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	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

They both woke at the same instant.

Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.

Without any warning whatsoever T'Pol had suddenly gone into convulsions. Her slight body was now twisting and thrashing on the cot like something impaled, her head flung back until the neck tendons strained like cheese wires as she fought for air.

In the first seconds of horror, Trip thought she was having some kind of nightmare. Then, as Atio'annan ran in, unshielding a small horn lantern, he realized that the healer must have been asleep outside the door of the tent in case of just this eventuality. He'd been _expecting_ it.

Considerations of propriety or any other such absurdities went flying out of the window. He threw his arms around her, trying to support her and help her in any way he could, while terror rose in his throat to choke him. Possibilities hurtled through his stunned brain, each worse than the last. Some kind of allergic reaction to something she'd eaten – some sudden and virulent disease – _poison_ – she couldn't take this for long, her body was too weak to cope with the stress on her blood vessels, already under attack from that damned toxin. And this had to happen after those few magical moments last night!

"Do something!" he yelled at the healer, who was indeed trying to pour something from a beaker into the Vulcan's mouth, but her throat was locked shut to facilitate those terrible gasps for oxygen. He could feel the man's helplessness.

"I can't. It's the ihaile venom. It does this sometimes – only rarely – "

"She was supposed to have weeks yet!"

"I know." He heard the hopelessness, the defeat. "I'm sorry."

"NO!" Trip snatched her up off the bed and pulled her into his arms. "Don't go – don't leave me – _t'hy'la!"_ In of his rare optimistic moments he'd sneaked a peek through the UT database in search of Vulcan terms of endearment; there didn't seem to be many, but he'd found that one, and memorized it in hope that some day he'd have the opportunity and the cause to use it. Now it sprang to his tongue in desperation.

She was long past hearing him. Her breathing began to fail. Foam and blood gathered at the sides of her mouth.

He didn't feel Malcolm's hand come to rest softly on his shoulder. He didn't feel anything except a blind fury of grief and desolation and rage and guilt that it was going to end like this, everything snatched away from her because of some goddamn bite she'd gotten, because she'd been too busy looking out for him to look out for herself. _Shiránnor,_ he screamed out inside his head. _Shiránnor, for God's sake help me!_ But Jon wasn't here to call her, and she wouldn't hear, wouldn't know. Maybe even Phlox couldn't save his _t'hy'la _now. He'd never got around to calling her that, never got the chance, though somehow he'd hung on to the hope that someday the time might be right when he'd surprise her with it. Now it was never going to happen.

He dropped his face so that his cheekbone rested against hers, feeling the hot harsh breaths rasp against his ear with longer and longer intervals in between. Her body was just twitching weakly now, and the pulse was leaping erratically under her jawline. The strain was going to tell on her heart soon, and that pulse would simply ... stop. More emerald blood ran out of her mouth, mingling with his tears. She'd bitten her tongue or the inside of her cheek. Blood. He'd always associate _this goddamn place _with blood as long as he lived.

_Blood._

He stood up, carrying her as though she weighed nothing. "Outta my way!"

"Trip...!"

"Get your pistol. If anyone tries to stop me, shoot them." He didn't wait to see if Reed obeyed his order. The world had disappeared except for the portion of it that led to the river.

The dark shape of Mahé'lanné was just outside the tent flap. In another life he might have wondered why; it might have mattered what the warlord thought and did. The only thing that counted now was that he didn't try to stop him and therefore Malcolm didn't have to shoot him. Even that was something that floated past at the very edge of his consciousness.

The night was very still. He had no idea of the time: there was no hint of dawn yet, only the enormous arch of the starry sky overhead, watching him intently as he strode down the avenue between the tents. A sentry moved forward at the rim of his vision, but was stilled by a word from someone and therefore did not become a demonstration of how phase pistols work.

She was still breathing. He didn't have to look, he could hear it, and as long as he could hear it his legs could keep moving. He fastened his eyes on the broken dark shapes of the trees that lined the river, and tried to pick up speed, but the ground was uneven and if he fell...

Someone was beside him, one hand gripping his arm in support, lending him keen eyesight. "Step a bit high... clear for a bit ... No, come this way..." He stared down at her face, contorted and smeared with green stains, and she was still breathing. His world was still intact. But the pauses were becoming longer and longer, and...

The tree shadows swallowed him briefly and disgorged him onto the riverbank. Fra'heálla had gone. There was only the water, dark and secret, glittering with a million shifting reflections.

The shock of the cold would kill her.

He looked up at the stars. The Great Dance, she'd called them. _I can't believe, lady. I can only believe that you believe. Is that enough?_

If he stopped he would never move again. He kept going. He walked into the river, feeling the brutal chill of it mount up his legs. The rocks underfoot threatened him, shifting as though to pitch him headlong into the grief that would scar him for the rest of his life.

He stopped. She was limp in his arms now, all the strength gone. She was dying. The shallow gasps had a rattle in them.

His legs were shaking as he turned around. The mountains were jagged against the sky in the east, visible only as an absence of stars. _It's up to you now, lady._

There was no way to search for how the river bed was, no time for caution. He put one leg back to balance himself and bent his knees, keeping his body upright and T'Pol cradled tightly against him. Up came the water in a steady, deadly flood, pushing against his abdomen, swirling around his elbows, reaching inexorably for _her._

No response. No breathing.

He screamed out and fell down on to one knee. She disappeared into the water, and he buckled forward over her, searching for her mouth in the turmoil and the cold and the sparkling. Somehow he got one hand on the back of her head, in the hair streaming out like weed; he found her lips, and made a seal. All the breath in his warm body passed into hers in a great exhalation of love and need and desperation. _Breathe with me, T'Pol. Breathe for me, t'hy'la. Come back to me._

The right arm that had hung lax behind his shoulder suddenly jerked up to grip around his neck. Her outflung left hand shot up to clutch his hair. Her eyes flew open, staring into his with utter incredulity.

_"YES!" _He came up out of the water in a single strong lunge, sucking in air only in order to yell the word at the top pitch of his lungs, feeling her turn and cling on to him, her grip strong enough to make him wince. Strong, Vulcan-strong again; he'd treasure every bruise that her fingers left on his body. She dashed the wet out of her face, gasping, as she looked around in total bewilderment.

_"Commander?"_

_Trip. Just call me Trip, darlin'. You will one day. When you feel right about it. And I'll get to call you t'hy'la. Can't wait to see your eyebrows when I lay that on ya. Though I bet you'll say I haven't said it right, just to zing me. And you'll teach me how to say it the proper way, the Vulcan way. We'll have time. I'll make sure we have time._

"I have the feelin' you won't like the explanation, Sub-commander." He began wading back to the shore. Malcolm had even braved the water past knee deep to come to meet him, which in the circumstances was borderline heroism, Trip thought with a grin. The armory officer's eyes were like saucers, but his face was irradiated with delight.

"What ... how ...?"

"Don't ask. I couldn't explain if I had to."

"When Phlox and the captain see this you bloody well _will_ have to. In spades!" He turned and sloshed back to shore alongside him.

"Maybe I'll have thought of somethin' by then." They grinned at each other.

"I would be grateful if you would allow me to stand now, Commander. I feel perfectly able to do so." Even when she was as bedraggled as a soaking cat T'Pol retained her dignity, and being held cradled in a Human's arms in public for a moment longer than strictly necessary probably violated at least a round dozen Vulcan codes of etiquette.

Tucker set her back on her feet with as much delicacy as if she had been made of the finest china. For one thing, it let him hang on to her for just an extra couple of seconds.

Mahé'lanné and Atio'annan were standing side by side, watching. Even if they'd been human their faces would probably have been pretty unreadable.

"I sure hope I didn't offend you, doin' what I did." Trip lifted his chin and faced them. "I don't know what put it into my head. But seein' what it's accomplished I can't be sorry for doin' it. And I'd do it again if I had to."

"That is understandable." The warlord inclined his head gravely. "I do not feel it any province of mine to take offence at what the Goddess has done. And I am more glad that I can say that She saw fit to do so." He took off the cloak he was wearing, and stepping forward he placed it around T'Pol's shoulders with courteous grace. "The night is chilly enough even without your being wet through, Lady T'Pol."

"Thank you, Lathaichan." Dignity was one thing, practicality was another; now that she was separated from the warmth of Trip's body, the cold of the night was obviously beginning to make itself felt. The cloak was thick and soft, lined with fleece. She wrapped it around herself tightly. An acute observer might have thought that her fleeting glance towards Trip was ever so faintly wistful, but the expression was so sternly banished that it might only have been imaginary.

"I think we'd better get back to camp straight away so we can get you all dried and changed." Atio'annan gestured shyly. "And perhaps a glass of warm mulled wine...?"

"That sounds great." By his enthusiastic tone Malcolm obviously knew what it was. Some Merrie Olde English specialty, perhaps. Though it probably wouldn't taste quite the same as what he associated with the description. Still, anything at all that had the adjective 'warm' attached to it exercised its own powerful attraction at that moment. Trip was only wearing his Starfleet blues, and now they were soaking wet they were worse than no protection at all. Malcolm, in the same state of relative undress, but dry from the thighs upward, was already shivering with the cold.

The five of them walked rapidly back to the camp in silence. There, in very short order, towels and blankets were produced, the braziers were stirred into life, and everyone found out what warm mulled wine tasted like here. It wasn't quite what it was in England (Merrie, Olde or otherwise), but it was still pretty good at driving out any lingering chills. By which time the first fingers of a lemon dawn were stroking shyly at the fringes of the western sky, and at least three of the company were perfectly ready to return to their beds and go happily back to sleep again.

* * *

Much further downstream, a solitary figure finally padded out of the river and shook herself vigorously before catching up her long head-hair and twisting the worst of the water out of it. The cold had had no effect on her, but she was very tired. It had been a long and taxing night; even for a Skair, sorcery of this magnitude was draining. This was the first time she had taken part – naturally an unseen and unsuspected part – in the _nyhai-vra _of a new warlord. She knew what to expect, of course. The long gash on her forearm was washed clean by the river water. It would heal soon. As for the ihaile venom, Skaira were resistant to it. It would make her a little nauseous for a few days, but that was all. The bruises were rather more troublesome, of course, but her body was strong and healthy: they would pass. She looked up gratefully at the fading stars, the memory of that anguished cry still echoing in her mind: _Shiránnor, for God's sake help me. _Had she been other than she was, it might not have been possible. By comparison to the ritual injury inflicted during the nyhai-vra the woman's plight had been such that the murmur of the river had been almost drowned out by the sound of the waves of the Endless Ocean. But the Goddess had been merciful.

He had seen. He had remembered. He had understood.

Now they both had to remember the words she'd used to them last time: _Happiness is too brief to be wasted._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The new Divisional Commander and his officers were supposed to ride out the next day, but in view of the exceptional circumstances it was agreed that another feast was in order. Now that the visitors had received such a particular blessing from the Gods the whole camp should be included: to do less would be to pay insufficient honor to both the donors and the recipient.

By this time even Malcolm was so convinced of their safety among the Venelai that he didn't bother to clip his phase pistol to his hip as they dressed. He glanced across the tent from time to time, smiling at the way that Trip was still fussing over T'Pol like a broody hen and the Vulcan was strenuously, if calmly, resisting. He'd never have believed how wonderful it was to just listen to them bicker again.

Early in the morning Trip's communicator chirped. Instead of the coded message they'd expected, it was a direct call from Hoshi to tell them that the Bird of Prey, or whatever it had been, had changed course and departed. _Enterprise_ was free to return, and would be with them the following morning.

Knowing that the captain would be on tenterhooks about the success of their mission, Tucker had asked to speak to him in his ready room, and once on a secure channel had given him the good news. Archer's incredulity, joy and relief had been palpable; he had declared his intention of going at once to Sickbay and setting Phlox's mind at rest. "Though I guess he won't believe it till he's seen it for himself," he added before closing the channel.

They were sitting outside. The weather had turned warm for autumn, and the sun shone; it was a pity to stay indoors on such a day, so after breakfast chairs had been set up in a position where the sunshine reached them and a stand of bushes protected them from any stray breezes. Mahé'lanné had joined them presently, so he was there when the call came through, and he listened with grave attention, tilting his head from side to side in the evident effort to make out how it was happening. "Your people have many marvels," he remarked. "I would like to speak with this captain if he would agree to it. And if he would be willing to journey to Thervanil with us and meet the Emperor, I would be the guarantor of his safety."

"Well, you'll understand that's not somethin' I can promise on his behalf," said Trip carefully. "But I'm sure he'll be delighted by the invitation."

"We have to schedule a trip upriver to collect the shuttle at some point," observed Malcolm. They had already explained to the warlord that the craft in which they had arrived – the same by which 'Saint Trip' and his rescuer had been removed from the certainty of recapture on their previous visit – had been left some kilometers further inland.

"That will not be a problem. Do you all ride?"

"Excuse me?" Reed was startled, and showed it.

"Ride." He pointed to where a line of stags were tethered. It was noticeable that they were tied at a respectful distance from each other, and their racks of antlers were broad and strong. "We have a day to spare. I would be glad to accompany you to your craft, if you wish."

"It'd be one way of gettin' the 'pod back before the cap'n arrives." Trip's face had taken on a look of delight that the tactical officer felt, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, was wholly misguided. Trip on board an animal that not only had a mind of its own but also presumably an Attitude was just asking for the sort of trouble that should be avoided at all costs.

_"Can_ you actually _ride_, sir?" he asked in the most dampening tones he could manage.

"Sure! Anybody can ride!" said Tucker breezily.

"If I am not mistaken, those animals are bred and trained for war." T'Pol's voice was even drier than Malcolm's had been, if that was possible.

"That is correct. But if you are unsure, they can be harnessed so they will give no trouble." The Lathaichan was busy going through a sheaf of papers – even on this world, it seemed, paperwork had to be completed by all ranks. A secretary stood beside him, handing him more documents as he asked for them.

"Then that would appear to be a sensible precaution," said the Vulcan serenely. She looked at Trip, and the engineer's incipient scowl faded into an expression that Malcolm for one considered to be bordering on fatuity.

Oh, well. At least they were all going to be sensible today.

It made a bloody nice change.

* * *

The journey was both uneventful and (mostly) enjoyable. The stags' harness included straps across the shoulder to which additional straps could be buckled that prevented the animals from tossing their heads. The animals were not exactly docile; they fidgeted and sidled at first, testing the unfamiliar hands on the reins, but after a minute or two they settled down.

The river had to be crossed, of course, but that was not a problem. It would apparently be 'disrespectful' to this river to build a bridge across it, but about a kilometer downstream the stream bed widened and flattened out into a ford that the stags had no difficulty in wading breast-deep. In a drying muddy patch beside it Malcolm noticed a single large pug mark, about the size that would be left by a tiger. He glanced around, automatically dropping a hand to his phase pistol (which, since they were leaving the camp, he'd brought with him), but the woods were silent and serene; the tawny animal underneath him was apparently unconcerned, and surely it would be able to smell the presence of a predator?

He shifted his position a little carefully in the saddle. It was built for someone of rather more generous bone structure than he possessed, and the high pommel and cantle that were meant to hold a rider securely in position during a battle were structures that his bum and his unmentionables alternately slid into with some violence unless he clamped hard with his thighs. He'd learned to ride back in England, so he was used to controlling a horse with his knees, but the flat English saddle had been built to accommodate a human pelvis and offered a far more secure anchorage. Nevertheless, since he wanted to walk back onto _Enterprise_ as opposed to crawling onto her on his hands and knees whimpering, he'd had to learn fast how to cope with this one. Trip, being of a bigger build, did not appear to be having the same problems, but sat blithely at ease on top of his cream-coloured stag, looking about him with an expression of wide-eyed delight. T'Pol sat daintily in the smallest saddle the camp could offer as if she'd been born in it. The war-stags the Venelai rode were at least the size of a top-weight English hunter, so it was questionable whether the Vulcan's grey mount realised that there was actually someone in the saddle at all, though her hands on the reins were alert and competent.

"You look like a real cowboy," he remarked to Trip, riding up level with him at a stretch where the riverside path opened up a little. T'Pol was in the lead, using her PADD to check on the location of the shuttle. Mahé'lanné was next to her on his magnificent black stag, and had closed the gap in the same way to ask her a question about something. "All you need is a Stetson and a set of spurs on your boots."

"And you look like a stiff-ass Brit as usual." The grin took in the upright posture, the correctly lowered heels. "All you need is a red coat and a huntin' horn."

"I was taught to ride properly, Commandah." He infused the awful accents of generations of upper-class Reeds into his voice.

"Sure." Trip gleamed at him. "But we'll see which of us is doin' the saddle-sore-shuffle worst round the corridors tomorrow."

"Appearances have to be kept up. At whatever cost." He tried not to remember that his uniform was showing the wear and tear of being dunked in a river and worn for several days. Supplies of hot water were provided daily for washing, and Atio'annan had provided them the day before with a surgical blade that could, with great care, be used for shaving, but there was nothing they could do about their uniforms; they could, of course, have borrowed clothes while their own were washed, but those tunics really weren't warm enough for the season, even on a warm still day like today. By his usual standards he must look like a bloody scarecrow. The first thing he was going to do when he got back on board _Enterprise_ was to rush back to his quarters and hurl this coverall into the laundry chute, swearing never to wear it again.

"See if you're still sayin' that when you're hobblin' round the Armory for the next few days."

Unable to think of a suitable rebuttal to this, and uneasily aware that the chief engineer probably had a point, Malcolm confined himself to a snort.

* * *

For a man of such high rank, Mahé'lanné appeared to pay remarkably little heed to appearances, nor did he seem to feel any anxiety for his own safety with virtually no escort. He had not even strapped a sword to his belt for the outing. The probability that he was heedless of potential danger was low. It could only be inferred that he was superbly confident that nobody in their right mind would dare to attack him, and when Trip questioned him on this point later he had almost laughed.

"These woods lie between Vede'hanax in Thervanil and the Skaira in the Holy Mountains," he said. "An unarmed merchant could travel them with gold coins stitched to the outside of his saddlebags and be in no danger." If there was a safer place in all Kerriel than this, he added, he did not know of it.

Atio'annan had not been much in evidence since he no longer had a patient to keep an eye on, but he was the last member of the riding party. Presently he pressed his mount up almost level with Malcolm's and prefaced his speech with a little respectful cough.

"I have not had the opportunity to thank you for the gift of my new assistant, lord," he said hesitantly. "You may wish to know that I have every hope that the bone in his arm will knit well. Not enough to allow him to return to fighting, of course, but for the healing arts it should certainly serve. And he will be glad to still be able to serve his Division in some capacity."

"I hope you actually wanted an assistant." The Lieutenant grinned at him. "I suppose I should have asked you first, but it was a bit of a snap decision. Thank the Commander there. It was his idea, not mine."

"I think he will be of great service to me when I am fully trained. Who knows, one day he may be a Healer in his own right. And he is grateful to you also, for his life. He wished me to convey his thanks if I had an opportunity."

"It's not necessary. Tell him he was a damn good fighter; I haven't fought many better." He glanced forward at the First Warlord's impervious back. "I certainly wouldn't like to take _him_ on in a fight. I don't think I'd win."

"The only man who's ever beaten him is Emperor Vede'hanax. And last time it was a close-run thing."

Reed's eyes widened. "They actually _fought?_ For real?"

"Certainly. The Emperor must defend his throne from his First Warlord every seven years. The last one was two years ago. I only had the privilege of witnessing it because my teacher thought it would be an opportunity to give me my first experience of treating knife wounds on whoever survived."

Trip had caught some of this. He reined his mount back, turning an equally amazed face towards the Healer. "Your law says this has to happen … every seven years? And what happens if the Emperor loses?"

"He loses the throne, of course." Mahé'lanné evidently had acute hearing. He looked back with no apparent loss of composure. "I lost last time. Next time I may not."

"And he doesn't mind?"

"Why should he mind? He has the same chance that I have. He could have killed me last time, but he let me live. He is a great man. I am proud to serve him."

"But you'll still try and kill him again in another five years." The engineer looked bewildered.

"Indeed I will. He will expect no less. And if I lose again, he may not spare me this time. It will be his decision and I will abide by it."

"And if you win – you have to kill him?"

"I would have to do such damage to him in order to win that it would be unlikely he could survive it. Therefore, yes – I suppose you would call it killing him. Though if he did survive I would be glad. He is a good friend."

"I'm sure glad they don't run promotion boards that way in Starfleet!"

"It is not common practice here, believe it or not." The Healer smiled. "Else we would have a very depleted army in a very short time!"

* * *

About half an hour's ride brought them to the shuttle, which was lying just as they had left it in the clearing.

"There's your 'winged chariot', Your Saintliness," Malcolm said to Trip with a smirk.

"I swear, you are goin' to be cleanin' every damned centimeter of every damned plasma conduit on the ship with a toothbrush, Malcolm."

"Yes. And if I do, every crewman on board is going to hear about you being mistaken for the Lord God." The grey eyes gleamed. "It'll be worth every second on my knees with a brush to know what you'll get every time you walk down a corridor."

"Bastard. You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would. Trust me, I would."

"Yeah, you would." He glared. If any man knew the inner workings of the ship's grapevine and could tap into it with merciless efficiency it was Malcolm Reed. Hoshi and Travis waged a perennial war of pranks against each other, and now and again Malcolm lowered his dignity sufficiently to join in. His success had been testament to his utter lack of scruples and fiendish imagination, as well as his absolute impartiality in choosing a victim. After the last occasion even Jon had unobtrusively checked his chair first before he sat down in it, though whether Reed would ever be quite brazen enough to commit such an act of lèse-majesté as to route even a mild electric charge through the captain's chair was unlikely.

Mahé'lanné was studying the shuttle with considerable interest as he politely handed T'Pol down from her stag. "Would I be permitted to see inside?" he asked. "If it is not forbidden?"

Bickering forgotten, Trip glanced back at Malcolm with a sudden blue glint of devilry. "Oh, I think we can do better than that."

Ten minutes later the shuttle took off gently, rising into the still clear air. Trip and T'Pol had withdrawn a short distance so that the stags should not take fright at the sudden noise and movement, and watched the craft curvet a little as it turned to follow the river downstream. Malcolm was showing off for the benefit of his passengers. He'd been a little difficult to persuade, but between the scanners' assurance that there wasn't a soul for miles around and the First Warlord's promise to send an escort at full speed to meet the strays on the way back to the camp, he'd finally allowed himself to be talked around, although he'd still been yelling parting admonishments about giving white trees a wide berth and keeping at least one hand on the phase pistol as Trip at last slammed the shuttle door closed and cut him off in mid-flow.

"I guess we can find our way back by ourselves, huh?" remarked Trip with a grin. "But it's such a beautiful day. I don't think there's much need to hurry." He looked at T'Pol, who was wearing an expression of demure incomprehension that didn't fool him one bit now.

He hooked the rein of his own mount over the nearest bush, and didn't care much if it strayed. The other three were tied to the back of his saddle by leading reins, and began nibbling the leaves as if utterly unconcerned.

She could have got back on to her stag if she'd been minded. Oddly enough, she hadn't.

He closed the few steps between them gently. He wasn't going to rush things. Even if today gave them nothing more than the chance to walk together for a while in the sunshine, hell, that was more than he'd been able to look forward to yesterday.

They had time.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

In later years it was the walk through the woods that Trip remembered the most clearly.

They could have ridden, as they had done on the way to the clearing where they'd left the shuttle, but somehow walking seemed more fun. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to kick drifts of fallen leaves or to knock ripe nuts down from trees with a piece of broken branch, and the forest was a picture in itself even without these attractions. It reminded him of woodlands in temperate regions back on Earth, and since joining _Enterprise_ there had been precious few opportunities for simple enjoyment of a day spent with someone special. Almost before the shuttle had vanished beyond the rim of the trees he and T'Pol had begun the stroll back along the river bank leading the stags, who dipped their heads to snatch a mouthful of foliage here and there as they walked.

The silence between them felt comfortable, and for a while neither of them broke it. Nevertheless after the events of the night before it was obvious that they both had a great deal to think about. Trip, for his part, found his thoughts returning persistently and inevitably to that magical moment when he woke to find T'Pol kissing him.

He was all but certain that she hadn't – at least consciously – intended him to wake up and catch her. What had driven her to do it, he wasn't at all sure. He had quite a lot of hopes, but even now he was aware that some of them were coming across as far-fetched, even to himself. She hadn't been herself; she'd been seriously ill, and closer to death than any of them had known at the time. It was possible that her brain had been affected by whatever stuff Phlox had prescribed for her as well as by the near-fatal actions of the toxin. Any one or any combination of all of those factors could have been behind her behaviour. So exactly where that left the two of them now, when she was well again and the contents of the previous day's hypospray must be nearly eliminated from her system, was a subject he was intensely anxious to explore.

He could guess that she might be sorely tempted to retreat once again into her previous exasperating denial mode. After all, bestowing surreptitious kisses on sleeping fellow officers wasn't exactly Vulcan style. Although, come to think of it, he couldn't say that for sure, having never served on a Vulcan ship. But he had to say it didn't sound _likely_. He allowed himself a grin at the thought.

After ten minutes or so he decided that if she wasn't going to start a conversation, then he was going to have to. He'd caught one or two sidelong glances, but her expression was very slightly nervous, and she was careful not to lock eyes with him.

The forest gave him his opportunity. One of the trees alongside the path had a vine of some kind growing over it, and by some freak of this world's biology it was in flower. The sprays were elongated and beautiful, each bearing perhaps twelve or fourteen large individual blossoms with glossy scarlet petals surrounding a throat of gold. He stopped, selected a spray that was close to the end of its life but had one vivid blossom remaining still in its full beauty, and snapped it off.

T'Pol had also stopped. She was watching him in some puzzlement; he knew as though she'd spoken the words aloud that she was trying to fit his actions into some hitherto unsuspected interest in exobiology. The woman was just too logical for her own good sometimes.

The puzzlement turned to mild apprehension as he turned around with the flower in his hands. Dropping his stag's rein for a moment, he stepped towards her. "T'Pol, will you let me put this behind your ear?"

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'd like to see you with a flower behind your ear." _Two can play the logical game, darlin'._

She surveyed the flower dubiously. "It is aesthetically agreeable," she admitted. "But I do not understand the logic of putting it in a location where I am not able to admire it any longer."

"But it means that _I_ can admire both of you together."

Colour rushed up in her face, and very cute she looked when she was lost for a reply. She hadn't said _no_, so he took his chance and put the flower carefully behind her right ear. He'd made sure to leave enough of a stem to anchor it, at least for a while. The colour glowed against her dark hair; the long, delicately curving stamens bore anthers all the colours of fire. He believed passionately that under her cool Vulcan exterior there was enough fire to scorch any man, and now more than ever he wanted with all his soul to be burned alive.

She searched his gaze. Now that they were standing face to face, she seemed to realize that the time for honesty had come.

"We need to talk this out, T'Pol," he said, very quietly. "I know this must be really difficult for a Vulcan ... your people probably don't go for the emotional thing. But after what you did last night ... I want, I _need_ to know where that leaves us."

She bit her lip and began walking again. Her face suggested more thoughtfulness than withdrawal, however, and he matched strides with her, glancing at her every now and then. If she was going to talk, she probably needed time to get the reply right. It wasn't an issue that he wanted to have any confusion with.

"Shiránnor was right," she said at last, in a low voice. "I did not want to admit it. I was afraid."

"Afraid?" Of all the possible admissions she could have made, this was probably the last he'd expected. Wasn't fear an emotion? He moderated the surprise into gentleness when he spoke again. "What were you afraid of?"

"Of ... of your expectations. Of your needs." She looked up at him at last. "Humans have so many needs. When you form ... relationships, you require ... reciprocation of your emotions. I am a _Vulcan_, Commander." She swallowed. "_Trip..." _The name hung between them, the unaccustomed intimacy of it seeming to him to be an offering of sorts. She took a deep breath. "Vulcan relationships are based on different expectations. I was afraid that ... if we became involved in a relationship, you would want more than I could possibly give you. That you would be hurt." She paused. "That we would both be hurt."

His throat was tight. Impulsively he put out a hand and took hold of the one of hers that wasn't holding her mount's rein, and she let it lie in his.

"I can't promise it'll be easy," he said quietly. "I can't promise that we won't ever be hurt. But I can promise that I'll never hurt you on purpose. I can promise that for as long as we're together nothing will hurt you that I can save you from. I guess that's the best I can do, if you think that's enough."

Her small fingers tightened slightly. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth.

Now that was a hint he could read in any language. "I think it's my turn this time," he whispered.

She blushed again, but didn't move. He put a finger very gently under her chin and lowered his face to hers. _Take it easy,_ he cautioned himself; _don't scare her away._ The gentlest brushing of lips against lips, as light as a feather's caress; every nerve on edge to gauge the response, and his heart thudding inside his ribs so violently that he thought she must surely be able to hear it. The flower's perfume mingled with the faint, enticing, spicy smell of her skin, and he felt as if he was drowning in joy as she took a hesitant step closer so that their bodies touched, and she put her other hand ever so lightly on his shoulder.

Nevertheless, he could read her apprehension as well as her willingness. She had to learn to trust him with her fledgling emotions – because Vulcan or not, that was what she was feeling. She had to ease her way into the whole relationship thing. But this was a start, a start that he could build on at a rate she was comfortable with. He didn't know how long it would take, but she was worth the effort however long it took. One day – he could say it now with as much determination as hope – she would be confident enough to accept everything he had to offer.

* * *

The banquet was touched for him with a special glow that had nothing to do with the torchlight. He sat beside her and listened to the ebb and flow of conversation around them, contributing little to it. Fra'heálla sat in the place of honor at the center of the table; Mahé'lanné sat considerably further down among the lower-ranking officers with an air of serene aplomb. The new warlord ate little and talked less. There was a shine about him that did not hide the new air of desperately grave responsibility. His staff of office lay on the cloth in front of him, and the first toast of the evening had been to his future success.

Trip had naturally joined in this toast, but he was feeling a similar grave and shining sense of awe and responsibility, tinged with excitement. Every now and then, when the attention of the company was drawn safely elsewhere, his fingers contrived somehow to brush against T'Pol's as though by accident; the first time he'd thought it _was_ an accident, but when it happened again he realized with delight that she was _flirting_ with him. Under Malcolm's nose, at that.

"I am still at a loss to understand why you derived so much pleasure from kicking quantities of decaying vegetable matter around in the woods this afternoon," she said to him presently.

He grinned. He evidently wasn't the only one whose thoughts had lingered around the events during their walk back to camp; that first kiss had led to others, at least up till the point that their escort had reached them, when due decorum had to be observed once more. His exuberance in the mean time had found a vent in kicking piles of dead leaves as high as they would go, while she watched him with amused incomprehension. "It's a human thing, T'Pol. You might have grown up doin' the same sorta thing if Vulcan had forests like Earth does." Her eyebrows suggested that even if Vulcan had had forests, the likelihood of its inhabitants wasting their time kicking the debris around was remote in the extreme, but he persevered. "Next time you go home, try kickin' a bit of sand around. It just feels good. You might find it kinda fun. Humans just do some funny things – ask Malcolm about conkers."

"Did I hear my name taken in vain?" The dark head turned.

"I was just telling T'Pol about conkers. One of the more useful things your little island gave the world." Trip grinned.

"Ah. Yes, I've played a few games of conkers. Maddie used to beat me most times, but I won occasionally. In hindsight she probably soaked hers in vinegar. I was very naïve back then, it never even occurred to me." He noticed the Vulcan's faint air of puzzlement. "Conkers. The fruit of the horse-chestnut tree. You pick them, you bore a hole through them, you thread a string through and then you take turns trying to bash each other's to smithereens. And occasionally you get your fingers broken in the process. It's a quaint old British custom. Of course, less advanced civilizations caught on eventually."

"I fail to see what intellectual satisfaction can be gained by that," she said somewhat austerely.

"'Intellectual' isn't really the aim of the exercise. If you're looking for intellectual you ought to try cheese-rolling. A load of people take a disc-shaped cheese to the top of a steep hill and let go of it, and everybody runs down after it. Whoever gets to the bottom of the hill first keeps the cheese. Of course, a lot of people get injured in the process, but that's just part of the fun."

"The Brits invented conkers and cheese-rolling; we Americans invented the warp drive," said Trip sweetly.

"You invented that bloody trick-and-treating as well, so don't get above yourself."

"I can only imagine that your ancestors were gravely bereft of entertainment." T'Pol had apparently never visited Great Britain and the prospect of her doing so appeared to be growing remoter by the moment, judging from the expression on her face.

"Well, you can get a lot more fun than you might imagine out of chasing a cheese downhill." He grinned. "But what brought conkers into the conversation?"

Trip had the grace to blush slightly. "Well, there were these heaps of leaves in the wood.…"

"Ah. Well, what are heaps of leaves for if not kicking?"

T'Pol glanced from one to the other in bewilderment. "People in Britain have the same habit?"

"Yes, but we only do it when there's no conkers available."

"I am relieved to hear it."

And the banquet went on its merry way.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Back in her quarters at last.

_Enterprise_ had arrived punctually. The captain and Dr Phlox had come down to the planet via the second shuttlepod for introductions – at least, the captain had come down for introductions; the doctor had undoubtedly been more interested in seeing for himself what amounted to a medical miracle. His portable med-scanner had allayed at least some of his concern and curiosity, though T'Pol feared that the Denobulan would insist on a far more detailed inquisition in Sickbay when she was fully rested, restored, and better able to withstand it.

Mahé'lanné had had a long conversation with Captain Archer, the upshot of which was that a visit would be paid to the Imperial Palace. This was scheduled to take place in two days' time. Until then the ship would remain in orbit. For such visitors, it would be necessary for the appropriate preparations to be made – which would take time.

Having at last returned to _Enterprise_, the members of the landing party had been granted the remainder of the day off to rest and recuperate. Now T'Pol could shower, relax, dry herself at leisure and finally don a set of clean clothing; a thing she had always taken for granted now felt like the height of luxury. Her pajamas were ready on her bunk. They would after all, she told herself, be far more appropriate than Commander Tucker's spare undershirt.

_Far_ more appropriate. She had already consigned to the laundry chute all of the extremely unsavory garments from their sojourn on Kerriel. It was no more than coincidence that that had gone in last of all.

The sub-commander heaved a sigh. It had been a demanding and stressful couple of days in more ways than one. The ramifications of it all would take a considerable amount of time and effort to come to terms with. She was looking forward enormously to reaching the peace of her 'white space' and beginning the task of restoring herself to order.

She was relieved, of course, that her potentially fatal medical condition had been cured. Nobody could expect her to be otherwise.

Was it wholly ungrateful of her to wish that this might have been achieved by some more orthodox method?

Naturally she had little actual memory of the events that led up to the cure. Her consciousness had been restored with a vengeance by the sensation of awakening to the atrocious cold of the river, the feeling of utter dislocation in which the only anchors had been the arms holding her and the mouth forcing air into her lungs. After that she had been too cold, physically exhausted, and mentally drained to question anything, grateful only for the warmth of Mahé'lanné's cloak to keep off the night's chill as they all returned to the camp.

After she had woken the next day from a sleep that felt like coma, the experience of simply being alive had been slightly unreal, possessing a glossy brilliance in which problems tended to fade into the background. She had been able to simply enjoy each moment as it came, taking pleasure in the restored health of her body and the obvious joy of her fellow-officers in her return to fitness. Commander Tucker in particular had been a most agreeable companion. During their walk through the woods he had been gently attentive, not pressing on her anything with which she might not have been able to deal, but setting out to make the experience both relaxing and enjoyable. The interludes of kissing had been surprisingly agreeable, even … she had to admit it to herself … pleasant. They had left her wanting more, even wondering with a degree of anticipation what additional surprises might be in store for her as the relationship developed. For there would be a relationship. He plainly wanted one, and she had finally admitted to herself that so did she. There would certainly be problems, particularly if the development ever became public knowledge, but for now she had set out on her course and would not turn back.

And in the evening, during the banquet in her honor (an event which had caused her some embarrassment, as she had never before been the sole object of such a thing), she had seen a different side to him again.

Part way through the eating and drinking, Mahé'lanné had turned to her and said that his officers had decided that it would be a fitting gesture for her to preside over the Sun Dance. This was ordinarily performed only on Midsummer Day, he explained, but in view of these extraordinary events it seemed appropriate. Surely the God would not be offended.

"I would not wish to be the cause of any offense to anyone, or any concern to you," she had replied, wondering what all this was leading up to, primarily wondering whether it would be appropriate for a Starfleet officer to 'preside over.'

"You will not."

It had seemed churlish to refuse, especially as she could read without difficulty the eagerness of his officers as they rose from the banqueting table.

They had all crowded out of the tent and made their way to the meadow where Lieutenant Reed had fought his duel. Fires had been lit in a row down the center of it now, and all the soldiers still in the camp were lined up in two rows, one on either side of these. They were stripped to the waist and facing each other, each armed with a short thrusting spear. Several men sat to one side, cross-legged, with drums nestled between their knees.

"This is ordinarily a test of endurance," the warlord explained to her. "It goes on until there is only one man left standing. But tonight we will make it simply a display, and you shall be the judge of which side wins."

"I am unaware of the criteria on which to base such a judgment."

His head tilted. He smiled. "That will be your decision."

Beside her, Lieutenant Reed had gleamed a challenge in Trip's direction. "Armory versus Engineering?" he said.

"You got it!" Possibly the men had consumed more potent wine than they had realized. It was hardly the sort of thing in which either of them would ordinarily take part. For one thing, they didn't know the steps.

She pointed out this fact. Sense, however, seemed to have taken a temporary leave of absence from both of them.

The Venelai had seemed delighted by the offer. "It isn't difficult, you'll soon pick it up!" The officers divided and went to join their men, taking the two humans with them. Two additional spears were soon provided, though thankfully some vestigial remnant of the decorum expected of Starfleet officers was demonstrated by their only stripping down the top half of their uniforms rather than donning the offered kilts. The arms of the upper part of the garment were kept out of the way by knotting them; the undershirts were removed altogether.

She couldn't help hoping that the long blades were blunt, but it seemed rather a vain hope. Between alcohol, inexperience and over-enthusiasm, it all seemed quite unnecessarily hazardous.

"Where should I stand?" she asked.

"Wherever you wish. You can walk along the lines and watch. This is what our wives do. It encourages the men to excel."

It was highly unlikely that such a procedure was in keeping with Vulcan traditions of behavior, but to do otherwise would be ungrateful and ungracious. Perhaps just a little walk might not do any harm. And she didn't have to look too closely.

The drummers began to strike their instruments with the flat of their open palms, softly and slowly at first while the dancers demonstrated the dance to their guests. It was not difficult, simply a short series of warlike actions repeated over and over again. In and of itself, none of these was particularly strenuous. But after a while, they would begin to become taxing; presently, after prolonged repetition, they would become exhausting.

Presently both men had nodded readiness. The lines re-formed, the drummers paused. A soft wind had hushed through the meadow, raising goose-bumps on bare skin.

"It is your privilege to signal the start," said Mahé'lanné softly.

She had hesitated. Then shouted out the first word that sprang to her mind. _"Kal-i-fee!"_

She came back to the present with a shiver. The slamming rhythm of the drums was still in her mind. The whole affair had been primitive in the extreme, but for all that it had been ... fascinating.

On more than one level.

She had tried hard to keep her gaze neutral, to afford each dancer the courtesy of her attention. She hoped that it had not been obvious that this was surprisingly difficult to achieve.

Reprehensibly, it had seemed that Lieutenant Reed was having the time of his life. She did not recall ever having seen such a joyful expression on his face; as he stamped and thrust, yelling along with the soldiers in his line, he was simply unrecognizable.

Disturbing.

But not half as disturbing as the man facing him, naked to the hips, with the firelight gleaming on blond hair and bare muscular chest, matching him yell for yell and thrust for thrust.

Ostensibly the commander was upholding the honor of his department in the face of a challenge from the head of another. However regrettable the impulse might have been in terms of the expected behavior of a pair of Starfleet officers, she could understand that the male ego would have found it difficult, if not impossible, to refuse. But she could feel his eyes on her at every second, and it became harder and harder not to return that look, to lock with it and drown in the firelit blueness.

Her heart lurched at the memory as she walked to the shower. There was no doubt about it; she must meditate as soon as possible. There were far too many disturbing recollections for her to deal with.

Giving judgment, as she had presently been required to do, had been virtually impossible. Confronted by too many bright eyes and eager faces, she had been overwhelmed by the moment. To please him by giving his side the prize would somehow be too ... obvious. And yet, could she refuse him pleasure?

She could not.

"Engineerin' gets it!" He had been as jubilant as a boy, mobbed by all the others on his side.

Lieutenant Reed's side had been gallant losers, commiserating with him, although he seemed not at all put out by the defeat, if the grin under the sweat on his face was any indication. If he suspected that the judgment wasn't entirely disinterested, he gave no sign of it. "Your side won it for you, and my side lost it for me!" was his analysis, delivered later when their hosts were safely out of hearing. (It was probably inevitable that this led to a hoot of derision followed by an outbreak of minor scuffling, in which the commander predictably came off the worse.)

It was very fortunate that she still had supplies of her nasal numbing agent. Although in the strangest way, the smell of sweat that survived the rather desultory wash that the participants gave themselves before returning to the banquet was not nearly as offensive as she would have expected.

In fact ...

She gave herself a badly-needed mental shake. She had been down on that planet for far too long. Her standards were slipping. It would be entirely agreeable to meet with the commander and the lieutenant when they were once more their customary clean and well-presented selves. Order would be restored to the universe.

She turned a determinedly deaf ear to the small voice that whispered _"unfortunately."_

* * *

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	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

It was possibly the most ceremonious welcome that the Enterprise away team had ever had.

The whole court was assembled. As Captain Archer led his officers up the long marble floor of an enormously ornate hall which Hoshi, after several hours of conversation with the protocol liaison provided to them by the emperor's staff, had informed him was called the _k'uFil'akat_, or 'Hall of Gracious Audience', ranks of lesser nobility thronged between the pillars. Anyone who could exercise sufficient influence to wangle their way in had done so. The Hall was a dazzle of brilliant color, a sea of interested eyes.

First Warlord Mahé'lanné's word carried considerable weight. Not only was Emperor Vede'hanax seated on the Horned Throne to receive them, but his beautiful Empress Pra'crái was seated on the Lower Throne and his heir Vede'pra was standing between them.

Two Skaira were standing to one side of the great oval of marble in front of the dais. Neither of them was Shiránnor. They were older than she had been: they too were dressed with some ceremony, wearing blue cloaks and deep collars of linked silver disks irregularly studded with rough-cut pieces of yellow quartz. Their hair was braided up at the sides in an intricate pattern. Their faces were strange and solemn and deeply intelligent, but there was nothing there of the sparkling life that had infused Shiránnor's and made it special.

The captain tore his gaze from them with an effort and fought down a wave of emotions that he thought he'd never be able to sort out. He walked to the center of the oval and stopped. They'd been coached in the protocols. Even if it wasn't, strictly speaking, a 'First Contact', it was important that he give a good impression.

He remembered being introduced to Mahé'lanné, now standing just beside the Horned Throne. They'd discussed the implications of a visit to the Imperial Palace; he'd been honest, relating how during their previous meeting the Skair had warned that their differences were too great to be bridged. The warlord had understood the dilemma, even if he could have no real understanding of the vast differences between their cultures. "I cannot disregard Priestess Shiránnor's views, but I do not think just one meeting will harm us," he had said gravely, after considering it for a while. "We would not want to change, even if we could. We are happy with the world the Gods have given us."

Just what Shiránnor had said, more or less. So much for civilization. A world where they hadn't even gotten around to inventing the internal combustion engine could look at it, shrug and say _Thanks, but no thanks._

He looked up at the Emperor. Vede'hanax was sitting slightly forward on the Horned Throne, obviously deeply interested. The Venel Emperor was dressed in a long robe of fine white linen, with a dark blue cloak fastened at the shoulders with gold clasps studded with lumps of raw amber. His head was that of an eagle, with snow white feathers which lent even greater luminosity to the yellow eyes that studied the newcomers with ferocious intelligence as the herald recited the visitors' names and titles, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar terms, some of which were almost unpronounceable in Kerriel's Common Speech.

The recital came to an end. Mahé'lanné had been holding an ancient ivory sword point upright in front of him, and now raised it so that the tip pointed towards the ceiling. He shouted something aloud in a strange language, and sheathed it. Now the Truce of the Sword was effect. Except in direct response to a threat on any member of the Imperial Family, it was death to anyone who drew a weapon in the assembly hereafter. _Malcolm, for God's sake behave yourself, _Archer thought_. _

At least all of his officers were a credit to Starfleet now, dressed and groomed in their best. When the ship had returned to the planet and he'd piloted Shuttle Two down to see for himself how his landing party had managed, they'd looked as if it had been a pretty eventful couple of days for them. Not that he'd had much attention to spare for that, of course. He'd just looked at T'Pol, who had returned his incredulous stare with her usual Vulcan composure as Phlox went over her with the medi-scanner and made a variety of amazed noises. Sooner or later they were each going to sit down and compile an official report, and this time nobody was going to omit a single damned detail. There were far too many things around here that needed explaining, and Phlox for one was going to have so many questions he'd probably still be asking them when they returned to Jupiter Station.

Well. Getting right to the bottom of it was the plan, anyway; judging by past experience, it probably wouldn't work out that way, at least for him. He got the impression sometimes that the ship's captain was the last man to find out about anything.

"You are welcome to Kerriel, Captain Jonathan Archer." Vede'hanax pronounced the name with care, but accurately, with no rolled _R_'s. After getting used to the way the warlord spoke, it was easier to understand the Emperor than it would have been. Speaking through a rigid beak instead of a flexible mouth had influenced the development of the Common Speech: there were letters it did not use, and those it did use were pronounced in a rather different way that was reflected slightly by the UT. Archer could feel Hoshi behind him pricking her ears up. She'd been very nervous about joining the landing party today, but the prospect of getting to study people who pronounced things using a completely different vocal mechanism had won her over.

"I'm grateful for the invitation, Gracious One." He'd been taken aback by the discovery that that was the accepted way of addressing the Emperors of Kerriel. Graciousness wasn't what he'd expected to be one of the most valued attributes of a man whose job it was to keep the whole planet ground beneath his heel. 'Mighty One' might be the preferred salutation maybe, or even 'All-Powerful'. Not 'Gracious'.

The Venel returned his gaze with the same steady attention. He was strongly built, even among a people who ran to muscle in a big way, and given that he had over a hundred and thirty wives he probably got plenty of exercise. If they'd been standing face to face he'd probably overtop the tallest of the humans by more than a head. Nevertheless, although he indeed radiated authority, it was surprisingly difficult to attach the word 'brute' to it. That he could be utterly inflexible if he had to be, there was no doubt at all. That he could, and would, kill with his bare hands if he had to wasn't in doubt either. Whether he'd do either without caring was very much less certain. Perhaps he was a far more complex man than Archer had expected him to be. Perhaps this was what a basically decent man eventually looked like if he had tough and sometimes brutal decisions to make on a daily basis. A chill shadow of something like premonition brushed across the back of Archer's mind. _If your loneliness becomes too great..._

"Before we eat, I have been informed that one of your officers has a request to make of me," said Vede'hanax mildly. His stare travelled unerringly to Trip, standing stiffly at the captain's left shoulder.

"Yes, I have, your Graciousness." Tucker took two paces forward. He had his hands clasped behind his back in the correct regulation stance, but his chin was up. "I understand from Warlord Mahé'lanné here that a coupl'a weeks back you sat in judgment on three ladies who'd had a ... a misunderstandin' with me."

A stir went around the hall. The Emperor's gaze narrowed slightly. "You understand correctly. Those women were to have been my wives."

"So he said." A brief pause. "Well I can understand that you wouldn't want to marry people who'd act like that, but I was the one who'd have died if they'd got away with what they planned. And I'd just like to say that if it makes a difference, I don't bear a grudge for what they did. Not anymore. It ... well, maybe things turned out for the best." His gaze flickered towards T'Pol for an instant for some reason. "So if any part of that punishment's on my behalf, I'd ask you to think again."

Even an eagle face had something that corresponded to eyebrows, it seemed. "You are merciful."

"I'd like to think so."

The yellow gaze went back to Archer. "You concur in what your officer has asked?"

"I guess so. It's his decision. I'll leave it up to him."

Vede'hanax looked over them all thoughtfully. "There is much to learn about people from other worlds, it seems. And I believe that one of your officers was granted healing here. That, too, is a thing that I wish to look into, if you would have no objection."

"I'm interested in looking into that myself."

"So. In the circumstances perhaps a degree of leniency may be exercised. We will talk of it over dinner." He rose, and all the seated councilors and nobles rose instantly. "My Empress has extended the hospitality of the palace to you. With her permission, we will now eat."

The captain's eyes moved involuntarily to the tall, elegant woman who now stood up and took her husband's extended hand. With her _permission?_

"We all have our different ways, Captain," said the Emperor, smiling. "I run my Empire, my wife runs my home. It is a balance. Kerriel is good at balances."

"So it would seem, Gracious One." A double door was being opened in the side of the Hall, and the rows of spectators were falling back, bowing. Dinner, it seemed, was served. With the Empress's permission. Perhaps it was time for another preconception to go out of the window.

* * *

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	20. The Epilogue

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

There was a tingling moment of held breath on both sides.

She was so strange, and yet his first thought was that nobody had told him she was beautiful.

She had come to a complete halt in the doorway, looking strangely shy now that the moment was here. What had she to be fearful of? She was at home here, respected on all sides, a creature whose word carried weight with the Emperor who controlled the whole planet.

And he – what was he? An alien, powerless and alone. But Shiránnor had asked to speak with him.

Malcolm Reed remembered with the utmost clarity the odd mixture of expressions that had chased each other across the captain's face during that brief, peculiar interview in the _Enterprise_'s ready room that morning. Archer had started it sitting at his desk, but it had been only moments before he rose and walked to the window, with movements that spoke of restlessness. For much of the time he had stared outside at the planet turning sedately far below. He seemed calm enough, but his shoulders were tense – Reed, trained to observe even the minutest signs even with his peripheral vision, had sensed some strong emotion that his commanding officer was trying hard to control. What it might be was none of his business; he trusted the captain far too implicitly to suspect that it was anything to do with how dangerous his return visit to Kerriel might be.

They hadn't stayed long on the planet. The meal had been a success, and although no concrete agreement had been reached, it had been made pretty plain that as far as Trip's erstwhile would-be murderesses were concerned, some kind of clemency would be extended. It was not their place to dictate the details, but Trip had continued to press for mercy with what had been a subtle and winning grace. The Empress, for one, had seemed fascinated by him: that Southern charm had its uses after all. It wasn't beyond the realms of imagination that a little Imperial pillow talk might follow that evening after they'd left, helping on the cause.

Then, as they'd walked back towards the shuttle, one of the Skaira they'd seen earlier had stepped out of a side corridor and, padding up to the captain, had murmured something in his ear. He had stopped as though he'd walked into a glass wall. "Go on, everybody. I'll be with you in a minute." He'd disappeared down the corridor with the Skair, watched apprehensively by his staff officers, though in the circumstances T'Pol forbore to point out the obvious fact that he was breaking Starfleet regulations by doing this, and even Malcolm only fidgeted, more out of habit than anything else. And true enough even before they were all back in the shuttle he came through the crowd, his face carefully neutral, and took polite farewells of Vede'hanax and everyone else. Nobody asked him on the trip home where he had been and why; the answer was obvious, and his silence was painful.

And now this. It explained why there had been no immediate order to break orbit. Their business here wasn't complete, as they'd all assumed.

"She asked to speak to _me_, sir?" he'd repeated, once made aware of the reason for which he'd been summoned. He kept his straight regulation posture, not having been ordered to relax it, but he couldn't keep the faint note of incredulity out of his voice. "You mean – by name?"

"Yes. You. By name." A sigh that sounded as if it had been fetched up out of the bottom of the captain's lungs.

A pause, while he'd stared rigidly at his usual bulkhead as he waited vainly for further details to be offered. Archer rested his elbow on the rim of the plating and his forehead on his forearm, as though very tired.

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Well. I could tell you, but I'd rather not."

_Bloody hell, I'm a bit old for surprises._ He could remember thinking it. And yet nothing could have prepared him for the luminous great eyes, and the melting grace of her smooth stride, and the impression of controlled power that radiated from her. She was younger than either of the other Skaira had been, younger than he'd expected; had she been human, he'd have guessed that she was in her late twenties. He'd glanced with acute interest at the others during the banquet, trying to understand what it had been about the absent one that had had such a disconcerting effect on Captain Archer on their previous visit, and was therefore not surprised by the strange mixture of human and leonine features in her face. Nevertheless, there was an air of winged and eager curiosity about her that was both intriguing and captivating. Suddenly he understood the captain a great deal better, and not only why he'd been reticent about the reasons for sending him here.

"Priestess Shiránnor." He pronounced her name now with some care, concentrating hard to maintain his most correct parade-ground stance. He hadn't been ordered to wear dress uniform for the occasion, but wished now he'd requested permission to do so on his own account, even though he'd been even more meticulous than usual in his grooming preparations. "Captain Archer told me you were kind enough to ask to meet with me."

"Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. I am pleased that you agreed to come." Thanks to the UT in his pocket the words came clearly, with that characteristic guttural. She halted perhaps a metre away from him, studying him with grave attention. "I hope that you did not feel – obliged to do as your captain asked."

"Not at all, ma'am." It had been made plain that the visit was a request, not an order, and now with everyone safely back on the ship there seemed little enough reason why the priestess should feel curiosity about a person she'd never met, or why he should feel that it was so important to the captain that he satisfy that curiosity. For although Archer's tone had been carefully neutral, his subconscious body language had not. The gaze that was usually strong and steady had seemed to find it hard to rest in any one place, and the way he spoke – with so many strange hesitations – suggested that he was not nearly as composed as he wanted to appear.

"I would be honoured if you would eat with me," she said gently, gesturing to one side where a low table sat among a nest of rich cushions. "And after we have eaten we can talk."

He'd have felt better about talking first and eating afterwards, but diplomatic protocols had to be observed; if she wanted to make small talk first he'd have to make an effort. It wasn't something he'd ever been good at. His usual job was to stay in the background, all eyes and ears in case anything should threaten the officers whose duty it was to take part in any necessary discussions.

Feeling that the request effectively released him from strict formality, though his manners would have to remain at their best in this unfamiliar role, he relaxed his shoulders, brought his hands from behind his back and walked towards the table with her. If he'd known in advance what was going to be suggested he'd have worried in case eating, in her case, might consist of killing something there and then (preferably something other than himself). His fears would have been groundless, however. The table was spread with a spotless blue cloth and dishes of chased silver resting on it, and everything on them was reassuringly inanimate. There was no cutlery except a knife beside each plate; presumably one ate with the fingers, so he'd have to watch carefully to make sure his table manners were appropriate. A bowl of scented water was laid out beside each place, with white flower buds floating in it. Although it did not have the overwhelming grandeur of the banquet, considerable care had plainly been taken with laying out the meal. Sprays of more white flowers rested on the tablecloth, and a clear, faintly bluish liquid that was probably wine glimmered in a flask of surprisingly fine glass.

He seated himself a little awkwardly on the cushions; crossed legs seemed both the most appropriate and the most comfortable posture. The meal appeared to be some sort of buffet, with perhaps eight or nine dishes from which to select; some of these were recognizable as things he had found palatable the day before – a fact which suggested that someone had been taking note of his preferences. The wall against which the table rested was of pierced white marble, through which one could glimpse luxurious gardens; the chirping of birds suggested that any crumbs left over from the meal would soon be disposed of. There were voices at a little distance outside, though a quick glance failed to spot the speakers, who were probably elsewhere in the garden. The pitch of the sounds suggested that they might be female bird-people. Although he'd learned to his incredulity that Emperor Vede'hanax had over a hundred and thirty wives, only his Empress had been present at the banquet and there might be some cultural reason for this; the others might be in some kind of _purdah._ He controlled his curiosity sternly in case it might be considered inappropriate.

It obviously wasn't good manners to touch anything before he was invited to do so, though the smell of the bread made him aware that he was hungrier than he'd thought. Fresh food, eaten in the fresh air on a beautiful day and in such elegant and yet relaxed surroundings where, even though he was the only human, his safety was so formidably guaranteed – this was a treat indeed. He sat quietly, hands clasped loosely in his lap, waiting for instructions.

"It is our custom, before we eat, to thank the Giver," said the Skair tranquilly. "It would not be appropriate for me to offer thanks, since all but the meat is the gift of the God. If your people have the same custom, it would honour the meal to have you offer on behalf of us both."

A priest had offered the brief prayer yesterday; these people were very devout. It had been years since Malcolm had done any such thing, but Sunday lunch in the Reed household of his childhood had been a strict affair, as had so much else. It had included saying grace beforehand, and the words came to his tongue almost without effort, if not without a pang. "Bless us, O Lord..." Since he felt self-conscious he had his eyes lowered, and he therefore missed the faint shadow that came and went across Shiránnor's forehead as he spoke.

Nevertheless, her gaze was clear again by the time he had finished. A graceful wave of her hand bade him to make himself free with the contents of the table, so with due caution he followed her example, and after spreading one of the fine linen napkins across his lap he helped himself to whatever appealed to him. All of the food was served cold, but on this warm afternoon that was not a problem. The meat was cooked and laid out neatly in thin slices. At a guess, it was venison. He helped himself to a small slice of it, using the point of his knife, and broke off a piece to sample. The taste was not unlike beef, but stronger, bringing up visions of puffy, golden-brown Yorkshire puddings glistening with gravy. The thought caused conflicting reactions that he found difficult to handle: running water in his mouth and a sense of constriction around his throat.

Polite table manners did not appear to dictate that conversation should be kept up. The silence, however, did not seem particularly strained, so he made no effort to break it with anything more than murmured words of praise for the flavour of the food. The meal proved to be quite delicious, and in different circumstances he might have eaten more of it, but the habitual and insistent voice of caution urged him to eat only lightly in case surfeit made him slow or – worse – unwary. He sipped guardedly at the wine which his hostess poured into fine chased silver goblets of wonderful workmanship. It was very good indeed, and probably quite strong too. Best not to have too much of that either. He limited himself to three-quarters of the initial amount and refused an offered refill. He wasn't sure whether during this visit he could strictly be termed 'on duty' in the accepted sense – had he believed that he was he would have drunk nothing stronger than water – but even so strange a social occasion as this merited him keeping a very clear head.

The Skair too had eaten only lightly, and rather to his surprise she did not consume any of the meat. She ate neatly and almost silently. He managed to conceal his astonishment when she dipped out a spoonful of what was undoubtedly some type of jam from a wooden container and spread it on a piece of the bread; somehow it seemed too ordinary and domesticated an item to be associated with such an exotic-looking creature, but she certainly seemed to relish it. That was one foodstuff he declined to sample. Jam, except for pineapple jam of course, was far too sweet for his taste. Even the bread was a little sweeter than normal, its flavour and consistency not far removed from that of _panettone_, though lacking the dried fruit that he associated with that.

Finally she drank the last drop of the wine in her goblet and sat back. He dusted a couple of stray crumbs of food from his chest on to his napkin, wiped his hands and mouth with it and folded it with a possibly absurd degree of care on top of his plate. Then he sat up straight. It wasn't possible to 'sit to attention' without looking absurd, so as the closest compromise he rested his arms on his knees and waited, chin up, eyes level, and heart beating suddenly a little faster.

"I do not know what your captain has told you of me," she said slowly, looking out through the marble tracery at the garden, which was now silent and empty. "We are so far apart, your people and mine. Too far to touch for any length of time without harm. And yet..." She sighed. There a long pause, which he didn't feel it appropriate to break.

"I have tried to put into words where this difference lies. It is difficult. It is not so much in what you believe, but in the way your minds work. What you call 'Science' has become your God. You worship it with this thing you call 'proof'. Therein lie both your strength and your downfall. You have made marvels of which this world could never dream. You walk daily among the stars, and it is not wonderful to you. But the heart of your God is cold; however much you love it, it can never love you in return. There is no joy in what you worship. And you are a lonely people. So lonely. It hurts me to the bone to understand how alone you feel." Her head turned back again and he felt the magnificent golden eyes come to rest on him with terrible compassion in their depths. "And of all the people on your ship, you are the very loneliest."

His throat was tight. A facile denial was unworthy of her, even if she would have believed it. "Perhaps. And that was why you asked to see me?" His chin had come up, and there was a hint of challenge in his voice.

"It is among the reasons. Last time your ship visited us, I was … aware of you. But even we, who have powers you do not understand, have rules. I too am under orders, even as you are. The consequences of breaking these rules may be trivial or they may be unimaginable; we do not know. But sometimes we are shown the path we must take. And now you are one of those who did what we had never dared to imagine: you crossed the threshold of Tharnil itself."

For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he realised: the fifth planet, shrouded in cloud and impenetrable hostility. Although the intervening time had not restored any of his memory of what had happened there, the memory of the blind terror that had gripped him as the shuttle re-emerged into free space still haunted him. "You know about that? What – what was it? What happened to us?"

She sighed. "It is impossible for me to explain adequately in your terms. The words I would have to use are ones that your people no longer acknowledge. But for us, they are a truth. For you, they may be a different truth. But whatever names we may use to describe them, the forces of which I speak exist. One of those forces, a most malevolent one, was imprisoned on Tharnil in the years beyond years. He had done much evil – on our world, among others – and he was chained there by the others of his kind so that he might wreak no more. He was harmless there, and impotent, for there were no living things there on which to vent his malice. Until – _you_ came, in your ship that can journey between the stars. And because you are – who you are, and what you are, you were uniquely vulnerable."

Face pale, he stared at her, searching for the truth, by whatever name it should be called. "Vulnerable in what way?"

She rose softly and looked into the distance. "When you first came to the city, did you see the Great Tower?"

It had been the highest building in the city by some measure. He could hardly have avoided missing it, and said so.

"Indeed. It is tall, and strong, and it stands alone. Now, this city is ringed by a wall, and in that wall there are also many towers. Not as tall as Vanil the Tower of the Sun; not as holy, not as beautiful, but very strong. All of the Venel cities are built in this style. And though it does not happen here, or has not as long as the memories of the dreamers endure, there are lands where sometimes, for no reason that we know of, the earth sometimes moves like a beast in its sleep. And when that happens, and the ground trembles underfoot, it is not the wall towers, joined together and supported, which sway and threaten to fall. It is always the high tower which stands alone which falls." Her gaze came back to him. "You were very fortunate. Had you not had with you one who could shut out for a brief time what assailed you, you would never have left that world living or dead – and for years beyond years you would neither have been one nor the other.

"I will not darken your heart by telling you more; suffice it that I know whereof I speak. And I know that you are the tall tower who stands guard in the city, gazing afar off for danger; and that danger to the place you call home is coming."

His mouth was now perfectly dry. "What kind of danger?"

"An attack that strikes from a clear sky, with no warning. That is all I have been told. And when it comes, the world under your foot will shake. And if the tower falls, then Tharnil will rejoice, for many others will fall with him."

A week ago he'd have dismissed this as superstitious poppycock. Now, with the memory of the terror breathing down his neck, he was not quite so sure.

"You say – an attack. Will it come from that world? From Tharnil?"

"No." She shook her head. "What lies on Tharnil is bound there, as I said. It is from another enemy your danger will come."

He stood up quickly. "I must warn the captain. If you can tell him, too –." He stopped. She was shaking her head slowly, but with finality.

"Nothing either you or I could tell him would make a difference. It would but darken his days sooner than need be. Leave him what innocence he possesses."

"But he believes in you! He _trusts _you!" In his agitation he reached out and grasped her forearm before noticing that the inside of it bore a long, half-healed scar and releasing it hurriedly. "He'd believe you, I know he would!"

"Indeed he would. But what of those others who would not in their turn believe him – who would call him deluded and worse, and think him unfit for command? He would sacrifice himself and achieve nothing, and the darkness would still come."

She was right. She had never left the confines of her world, but she knew. He remembered the problems they'd encountered right up till the last minute of departure; Ambassador Soval, for one, was only waiting for the first chance to prove that he was right, and that Jonathan Archer was unfit to have charge of a starship. Let the captain return at full speed with a tale of being warned by a telepathic leocentaur that catastrophe threatened their world, and he'd be lucky to escape psychiatric treatment for the rest of his life, leave alone retaining command of the _Enterprise._

"It is not always possible to prevent evil, Lieutenant," she said sadly. "The only thing one can do is to be fully prepared to resist it."

His hand fell away slowly. "That's why you wanted me here."

Her head inclined very gently.

"But why?" he asked in confusion and alarm. "Why me? Why not Travis? Or T'Pol?"

"Because of what you are. Tharnil will always use the most useful tool to its purposes for wreaking evil. And because although you do not know it, the touch of Tharnil has left its mark on you. I felt it on you as soon as you arrived. It is like cold, but worse than any cold. And you need to be warmed, so that it may pass away from you."

He looked around in bewilderment. Outside it was a fine autumn day, and the sun was still warm, unlike the scene in the tundra to the north they had visited where winter was advancing. From the faint warmth beneath his boots he suspected that the bird-people were sufficiently advanced architects to have invented some kind of hypocaust system for their houses; even with one side of the room effectively open to the outside air via that latticework, the room was not even remotely cold. And he himself was at a perfectly comfortable temperature.

"I speak of the warmth in here." She and reached out and touched his chest, laying one hand very gently against it. Looking down, he saw the spread fingers – just as he'd been told, there were claw-slots where fingernails should be. "And here you are so cold you have almost forgotten how cold you are. You know only that others shy away from you, and that you cannot give trust readily. This is because you cannot give what you do not have, and others sense this. In here you are wounded with wounds that will not heal. I am asking you to let me try to heal them."

Panic flared in him. Suddenly her proximity was intensely threatening, and he retreated several steps. "No."

"I will not pursue you, Lieutenant. There is no need to flee. Do you think that your captain would deliver you to one who intended you harm?"

"I don't know what you want of me." His voice was a little choked. "And I don't think the captain did either."

"He knew that it was important, for I told him so. And he knew that I desire your wellbeing, for I told him that too. The rest is between us."

"I can't." He turned and stumbled away from her. A moment later he found that he was sitting hunched in the corner of the room. To his horror, his arms were clasped around his chest and he was shivering uncontrollably.

She did not move. He could feel her eyes on him, however, even though his back was turned towards her. "I feared that it would be hard for you," she said sorrowfully. "For you, more than for any other person on your ship. But it is for that reason that you stand in the most need. Do not think that this is offered lightly."

"I'm sorry." What had possessed the captain to subject him to this? He felt more than raw: violated. "I can't. Please let me go."

"The door is not locked. At least, not the one to this room. Your chariot is ready whenever you call for it. I will not prevent you from leaving; you are a guest, and this was an offer only. You are not obliged to accept it."

He listened to himself breathing. There was almost a sob of panic in it. "Why? Why me?"

"I do not know. Some things I am told, and must accept. But it is a matter of trust, and that comes hard for you even among those you know and love. I am a stranger – an alien – a predator. All of those things stand against me in your mind."

"Did the captain know – what you intended?" His fingers dug painfully into his ribcage, with a strength that would leave bruises. That would be the greatest betrayal of all. The shameful confession of his aquaphobia would pale into utter insignificance beside being known at this level.

"No. I did not tell him, and he did not ask." The inference was obvious. Archer, evidently, had been able to trust her. But suspicion wasn't the captain's job. And it had been plain on far too many occasions for his tactical officer's comfort that it wasn't in his nature either. There had been times when his readiness to go with his optimistic but misguided 'gut feeling' had been a source of absolute despair.

"He's a very trusting bloke." It was hard not to make the words sound biting. "But I'm not, unfortunately."

"He has not been damaged in the way you have." The statement was almost too quiet to hear.

This was unendurable. He sprang to his feet and spun to face her, almost glaring. "That's none of your bloody business!"

"None whatsoever." She still had not moved. "But the time will come when your ship and your captain will need your strength at its greatest. I cannot tell why this should be, or how it will come about. But I understand a little – a very little – about the art of forging. When a master-smith creates a sword for a _lathaichan_, he knows that even the smallest flaw may cause the weapon to fail in the very heat of battle. It is not the fault of the sword, but the wielder may die because of that flaw. And if the warlord falls, his men lose heart. The battle may be lost – a kingdom may be lost – a whole Empire may be lost – because of that single flaw."

"You're telling me that – I'm the flaw? That _Enterprise_ is doomed – because of me?" He was now white to the lips.

"I am telling you that you are a powerful sword damaged in the forging. For that reason alone – and it was indeed no fault of yours – you lack a strength that your comrades may one day lean on for their very lives." She paced towards him. "More is at stake here than your happiness, Malcolm Reed, though indeed that weighs heavily in the scale. Believe me that I would not lie to you, and that I would not speak to you thus if I did not know that, were I not to speak, you would go to your death wishing with every fibre of your heart that you had done differently."

She stopped perhaps two body-lengths away from him and looked at him silently. He was still in the corner, backed into it as far as he could get. If she had bared her claws and teeth and snarled at him he could have dealt with it. Instead there was only sadness in her face, and it was unbearable.

"If I had known a kinder way to speak of this I would have done it. I am truly sorry. You find it hard to think when I am with you. I will go away for a little time, so that you may decide. If you find that after all you cannot trust me, I will send you back to your ship in safety with every blessing." She swung around and padded back to the door. A soft push opened it soundlessly, and she was gone.

For the space of twenty breaths he stood perfectly still. The only sound in the room now was his own ragged breathing. Outside in the garden the sun still shone; somewhere far above, the _Enterprise_ still sailed serenely in orbit. The _Enterprise, _that one day his weakness would betray. Unless...

* * *

After perhaps fifteen minutes she returned, entering as quietly as she had come the first time. She still looked quite serene, only a little curious as she stopped just inside the door, as one who waits to know whether her services will be needed. "Endless time for thought produces nothing save endless indecision," she said gently. "I would give much to spare you this, but it may not be. You must make your choice, Lieutenant."

He was sitting on a corner of the table, turning the empty wine goblet aimlessly between his hands. He didn't look up. "And you can … heal me?" he asked in a low voice, after a long pause that she made no effort to break.

"Because I am who I am, there is much that I can do. Change what made you into who you are – no. Even I cannot unmake time. But the power that has been lent to me is very strong. If you will put yourself in it, you may be reforged."

He slid slowly to the floor.

Without knowing why, he trusted her. It didn't even occur to him to think, as he ordinarily would have done, of the security risk involved in allowing her access to his thoughts; even if he had thought of it, she'd already accessed the captain's mind, so on that front nothing he could have revealed would be more damaging anyway. His fears were purely personal, those of an intensely private man with a troubled past. He didn't want to end up like the captain – the sight of those hazel eyes robbed of their lively sparkle during the past couple of weeks had troubled him more than he cared to admit. But if that was what it took to safeguard the ship, then his duty was clear. If it meant him living for the rest of his life as an emotional vegetable, even, it had to be done. And God knew his eyes weren't legendary for their sparkle at the best of times. There was nothing there anybody was going to miss. "What do I have to do?" he asked heavily.

"Nothing. But you will need one other – someone you count as a friend."

He lowered his head briefly. This was an indignity he hadn't counted on; if he had to be spiritually disembowelled, at least he'd thought it could be performed in private. He thought immediately of the captain – Archer had already become the repository of one of his shameful secrets. But second and wiser thoughts turned elsewhere. In what he'd believed to be his final hours on a previous occasion, he'd disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer in the desperate hope of saving the life of the only man he'd ever come near to thinking of as a friend. If he needed a friend now, there was the one he could count on. And Trip had flown the shuttle down, on the captain's instructions.

"He is waiting in the corridor outside." As his startled gaze lifted, she smiled gently; the tip of her tongue just showed. "No, I did not know. Let us say only that I hoped."

She padded to the door and opened it. The commander must have been seated in the hallway. Or, more likely, pacing to and fro in it – he had too much energy ever to sit still for long. He came into the room quickly, and his blue stare leaped across the intervening space as if fearing to find his junior officer already a basket-case, trussed hand and foot to prevent him going into some kind of lethal frenzy. "Malcolm?"

"I'm fine, sir." Habit is a hard master. He scrambled to his feet, uncomfortable even here with sitting in the presence of a superior officer without permission.

After giving him a long, assessing look, however, Tucker turned to face Shiránnor. He lifted his chin slightly and folded his arms across his chest. "The cap'n said you might need me for somethin', ma'am. Somethin' to do with Lieutenant Reed here." He paused, looking at her with eyes that were far keener than his almost lazy manner suggested. "But before we get into anythin' that any of us might regret, I'd just like to say that he's a fine officer and a damn' good friend, and I won't be part of anythin' that's going to harm him in any way."

"He knows what I intend and has accepted it. Can you do the same, and help him, without knowing?"

Tucker closed the distance between him and the smaller man with long, easy strides. He stopped directly in front of him, closer than he would normally stand, looking closely into the grey gaze that tried hard to meet his steadily. "Of course I'll help you, Malcolm, if that's what you really want," he said in a low voice. "But hell, I don't want two guys walkin' round the ship with their hearts broken."

"I think the general theory on board is that I don't have a heart, Commander." A tight smile. "Therefore that couldn't apply to me, could it?"

"Don't give me that. I was with you in that shuttle, remember. You dropped your shields good and proper there, _Loo-tenant._ You needn't waste your time puttin' them up again in front of me."

"Wouldn't dream of it, _Commandah Tuckah_." This time the smile was a genuine one. "I know what I'm doing, Trip. At least, I think I do – as much as I need to. But I'd be grateful if you'd … well, do whatever needs to be done."

"Couldn't face Hoshi when I go back if I didn't."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're an underhand bastard?" he enquired.

"Too old to change my habits now," said Trip with a chuckle. Then they both looked at Shiránnor, and their laughter died.

* * *

It was quite possible that, but for the metamorphosis in their relationship that had taken place during those endless, desperate hours in the freezing cold of Shuttlepod One, when they had both believed that their ship was lost, all their crewmates dead and that they themselves were doomed to death by suffocation when their air supply finally ran out, Charles Tucker would never have been able to endure what happened next.

It was hard enough to have to kneel and watch in silence while Malcolm lay down in front of him and achieved a comfortable position among the cushions on the floor, the Skair couched beside him on his other side. For all of the tactical officer's efforts to put up a stoic front, his eyes told a different story. He was just plain terrified. Whatever was to be done to him, he might have consented to it, but he was far from reconciled; it was probable that he'd have faced a leveled plasma rifle without half as much fear as showed in the rigid muscles around his mouth.

Trip's gaze shifted to Shiránnor. Here in civilized, even luxurious, surroundings, she was far more elegant than when he'd first met her – first plastered with blood, and then later sleek-coated with rain and caught out with no better hospitality to offer than an oversized lizard's burrow. It wasn't that she was more self-assured, for she had never been otherwise, and he doubted whether she ever could be. But her hair was combed and silky, falling well past her shoulders in ordered, honey-colored waves; her fur was beautiful, shining with health and so luxuriant that it made you want to reach out and touch it to see if it really was as soft as it looked. (Not that he would dream of doing so, of course. Contrary to _some _people's belief, he really did know where a diplomat shouldn't stick his fingers.) And her face, seen now in good daylight, was as intriguing as ever. So much about it was exotic, from the remarkable eyes and the flat nose with its leathery tip to the rather broad mouth that was so mobile and expressive. She even had whiskers – six or seven of them just below each cheekbone; and as for her little round furry lion-ears, that twitched to every sound, well he couldn't help but still find them kind of cute. It wasn't quite the first adjective that sprang to mind to apply generally to a creature who weighed probably twice as much as he did and was capable of killing him without even breaking sweat, but her ears were definitely rather endearing. They reminded him of a teddy bear's, which was perhaps why.

However, there was nothing endearing or remotely reminiscent of a teddy bear in her expression. Suddenly she looked desperately grave – even a little scared herself, if he'd been able to be sure of the finer nuances in a face so different from a human being's. In the hollow of her throat hung a rectangular silver pendant on a chain, with an oval stone set in it that was exactly the same color as her eyes; the light sparkling in its facets trembled as though her pulse was rapid beneath it.

"Before we go further, I must have your free and formal consent." She was speaking to Malcolm, holding his stare. "This will be painful. Very painful. But it is necessary. You must trust me and do as I ask. Are you willing?"

A terrified grey glance darted for a split second at Trip. "Yes."

"Then take his hand and trust me."

Ever the correct Brit, Reed wiped the sweat from his palm politely on his uniform leg before proffering it. His fingers were rigid, but he made a palpable effort to moderate his grip. Her right hand came towards his face, just as it had towards Jon's, the index finger extended. And just as it had before, it stopped just short of touching. _"If you accept me, join me." _The voice was very deep.

Malcolm let out a breath of air that stopped just short of articulation. A tremor ran through his arm, instantly controlled. Then, as though shoving himself on to a blade that would go into one side of his body and out the other, he thrust his head forward and made contact. It was utterly eerie that throughout what followed his grip never changed by a fraction.

It was not like what had happened to Jon at all. There was no rapture, except that for an instant his face went blank with an astonishment that was faintly tinged with pleasure. After that it was more like watching a demonic possession. Expressions flitted across Malcolm's face with almost inhuman rapidity, and his body reacted with telling violence. His eyes were half-closed, glazed, sightless. Sometimes his free arm would move as if trying to ward something off, and small, pitiful sounds would issue from between his locked teeth. Trip's already taut stomach muscles clenched with pity as he identified the one that came most often: _'… Father…'_

Shiránnor never moved or spoke. Her fixed and terrible regard bore into the man in front of her as though tearing him open by sheer force of will. Suddenly, however, Reed's eyes snapped open. He stared into her blazing eyes as though confronted by the devil in hell, and began trying frantically to claw his way backwards on the cushions, fighting and struggling to get away from her. But his boots could get no purchase on the polished marble floor, and that single finger seemed to hold him down like shackles of iron.

Without withdrawing or changing that one finger contact, the Skair leaned down towards him and snarled almost into his face: _"He is your enemy. Let go of him."_

The officer panted and writhed. "No."

_"He will betray you. Let go of him."_

"No."

_"He hates you and everything you stand for. Let go of him."_

"No." With every repetition the lieutenant's voice was getting louder and more frenzied; there was foam at the corners of his mouth.

_"He will fall and drag you down with him. Let go of him."_

"No."

_"They all hate you, because they know what you are. Weak. Treacherous. Afraid. Let go of him."_

"No!" It was a stifled shriek. The veins at his temples were bulging.

_"You are stronger alone. You can do this alone. Let go of him!"_

"NO!"

_"Weakling! Traitor! Cur! Why will you not obey me, and let go?" _Her face was inches from his now; she was almost screaming into it. Trip, hardly aware that by this time he was leaning forward with his free hand raised and clenched into a fist to knock the hell out of somebody because he couldn't watch this done to any human being, let alone to a friend, held his breath, expecting Malcolm to either go insane before his eyes or fall into a seizure. Instead the grey eyes rolled shut for one instant before snapping open again with a glare that hardly qualified as human, and he jerked up to yell right back into her face at point blank range: "BECAUSE HE'S MY BLOODY FRIEND!"

And at that, astonishingly, Shiránnor sat back and withdrew her hand with a gesture of unutterable relief. She was smiling so broadly that her tongue was stuck right out of her mouth, and as she laughed aloud the tension thrumming in the room broke with an almost audible crack. "So he is, Malcolm Reed, so he is. And now you finally and truly believe that."

Trip lowered his arm and sat back, finding that he was trembling all over. Malcolm's hand was still gripping his, and for a moment he had the strangest feeling that the two of them were actually physically fused, welded together by what had happened. He watched the lids close slowly in a face now wet with sweat, and tears begin to slide unchecked from under the lowered lashes.

_Let him weep. He was never allowed to weep when it was the only healing he could have found. He needs your acceptance now._

He didn't know why the voice was in his head now just as it had been in Jon's, but he didn't question it. "Hell, there's nothin' wrong with cryin' when you need to." He dashed a hand across his own wet eyes. "Will he be all right?"

_He will now. When he releases you, let him go. He will need to sleep soon, so that what I have done will finish its work in him._

They both sat silent, just being there for him. Slowly the hand's grip slackened and the tightness of the lieutenant's mouth relaxed. His body had been almost rigid, but gradually ease stole through it. He moved his head slightly on the cushions, and sighed softly. His eyes did not open.

"Attaboy, pal," whispered Trip, passing his free hand very gently across the damp forehead. "Just have yourself a nap. It'll make you feel better."

"Against regulations." The voice was slurred with sleep, but a laugh lurked in it. "Mustn't sleep on duty."

"Okay, I'm orderin' you. New Starfleet rule. Court-martial offense. Stayin' awake when you oughta be sleepin'."

"Don't remember... the captain mentioning that one..." It seemed that he had more to say on the subject, but his consciousness gave up on him at that point. He gave a single small, snuffly snore that Shiránnor appeared to find enchanting, and was gone.

Trip grinned. "Looks like we can leave Sleepin' Beauty to it."

The Skair looked across at him with her head on one side, interested. "You think him beautiful?"

"Whoa! No – it's just a sayin'!" He caught up the misunderstanding in a hurry. "Not that he isn't ... oh, you're kiddin' me!"

Her tongue was out of her mouth again. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. "I am sorry. I could not resist." She tapped him on the leg. "Make yourself comfortable. I will be back again in a moment."

She slipped out of the room. He sat back, leaning against the table and rubbing his face with his hands. So much had happened that it was hard to believe that everything was finally going right at last.

True to her word, she was back very quickly, carrying another flask of wine and a third goblet. "I do not think your captain would object to your drinking a toast to success."

He laughed. She looked so impish that he just couldn't help it. "No, I guess he wouldn't. As long as it's just a little one." He accepted the goblet, and held it as she half-filled it with wine. She refilled her own and they toasted each other silently before drinking. The liquid was cool and sparkling, and surprisingly refreshing in taste. He looked down at Malcolm for a while, then back up at her. She had made no effort to break a comfortable silence, and it occurred to him that for all her sense of fun she was an extraordinarily restful person to be with. "May I ask you somethin'?"

"Ask by all means. If I can answer you, I will." The great golden eyes met his without evasion.

"Well. It's a mite ... difficult." He glanced down into the wine. "It's about Jon. I'm worried about him." Then up to her again. "Since he – since you... He just hasn't been the same since."

"I feared that it might be difficult for him." The humor was gone; she looked serious and a little sad. "You are so strange to us, it is difficult to know how to act for the best without damaging you. I needed to understand what you were, how you thought ... whether you posed any threat to this world of mine. I did not understand how overwhelming he would find it. And by the time I did understand, it was too late." She paused. "Nevertheless, you must believe that ultimately what I did will be for his benefit. I have been told this. I could have made him forget, but one day the memory will be a comfort he will need. For now, time is the healer he needs – time and distraction. He will not forget, but he will mend. And there is one other piece of counsel I must give you that you will need to remember." Now her gaze was extraordinarily intense. "This journey that you have undertaken will not be without cost. Your path will lie through darkness and sorrow. Jonathan Archer will have great need of you in the years to come, but there will be a time when the greater his need, the less he will be able to show it. Not only for his sake or for your own, but for the sake of all that you hold dear, do not abandon him then."

"I won't. He's my friend." Almost exactly the words Malcolm had used, and for the same reason. He spoke softly, vehemently, as if binding himself by oath.

She looked searchingly at him for a moment longer, and then the smile came back to her face. "Then let us drink to friendship."

* * *

Since this had been almost a private visit, this time the whole court did not come out to bid them farewell. The shuttle was still sitting in the centre of the wide courtyard, gleaming in the sunshine. As he climbed aboard, Malcolm took a last look at the Skair who was standing quietly by the gates, her loose blonde hair blowing in the wind. He had a feeling that she'd told him something that he really ought to remember; something that teased at the back of his mind like a forgotten dream. Something that he ought to mention to the captain, if he could only remember what it was...

It really must have been a dream. Although a lot of what she'd said to him had gone very vague indeed, and he couldn't remember a thing after she'd touched his forehead, surely if she'd said anything of real importance he'd be able to remember it. Wouldn't he?

He pulled the door closed. Trip was at the helm, going through pre-flight checks. "Catch yourself a little more sleep if you need it, in the back there," he called. "I think I can remember how to fly this thing on my own."

"I must admit I wouldn't altogether trust me to do it yet. I feel like I've been rather overdoing it on Andorian ale." With a sensation of slightly guilty pleasure he stretched out on one of the benches. What _had_ happened to him back there with Shiránnor? The more he racked his brain, the less he seemed able to remember. It was all fading away, though it wasn't an alarming sensation: it was simply dissolving into a pleasant sort of fog.

The sound of the engine was the sound of home. He stretched and yawned. As the little craft rose and levelled off Trip started to whistle a tune, and then very softly, almost under his breath, he started to sing, as though to himself.

_"It's impossible, tell the sun to leave the sky, it's just impossible..."_

Malcolm squinted at him. That choice of song was very, very telling. _'Impossible', eh, Commandah Tuckah? You wait and see_. _I get the feeling that some pretty amazing things will be possible around here soon._ And, smiling, he closed his eyes.

**The End**

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


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